DOOMSAGA I: THE BOOK OF THE TAROT
Chapter One The Page of Pentacles
April, 1942. Yugoslavia.
The dark haired boy rose from the pile of leaves where he'd made his bed, and shook the sleep from his clothes. He sat down on a log after he'd rolled up his blanket, and drank a little water from a skin as he chewed thoughtfully from a bit of hard tack. The morning air was still and cold, his breath made wisps of steam as he ate, but he didn't make a fire. The remnants of last night's small fire were black and cold at his feet. He needed to be up and away soon. The weak light of the morning sun filtered through the forest. The evergreen trees that had held their ground through the long winter would soon be crowded out by leafy aspens and oaks that were just beginning to wake up for the coming spring. Patches of snow still lay in shadowy spots beneath the trees, but bits of green were poking through the leaf litter. The forest was quiet, as if he was the only soul in the world alive right now. That was a good thing; he didn't want to meet anyone if he didn't have to. The boy shuffled around to clear all sign of his presence from the campsite.
The droning sound of a lone airplane breaking the quiet of the forest caused him to gaze skyward in a moment of panic. He hunched down beside the fallen log. But the Luftwaffe had completed their bombing mission here a year ago, and occupied Yugoslavia was peaceful as long as you weren't a Jew or a Gypsy. The German army would hardly see fit bother a small boy and his pony anyway. Still, the specter of a threat impelled the boy to be on his way quickly. He gathered the small white pony he called "Ghost", and began his search through the forest in earnest.
His mother hadn't wanted him to go. But Queen Victoria needed him. He knew that the old gypsy lady wasn't really the Queen Victoria. He wasn't really sure who Queen Victoria was, but he had an idea that there was someone by that name who lived in a castle with knights and piles of gold riches in a place called England. But England was being bombed too, so he wondered if that place was still there. Anyway, if the old woman whose face was more wrinkles than skin wanted to be called Queen Victoria, it didn't matter to him one way or the other. If she had another name, he didn't know it and she didn't share it. Besides, he knew it would be rude to ask. Gypsies often took names that they fancied. It was one of the ways they snubbed their noses at the authorities that tried to count them or hem them into the rules of respectable stable societies that they could understand. The gypsies were forever taunting them with their rules, and doing their best to ignore them. Even though he was just a boy, he understood the irony of it.
Queen Victoria had called him into her caravan two days ago. Her eyes were always on the weather: she could taste the dirt and know when the flowers would bloom. She watched the birds for signs of early thaw, and could smell the rain long before it came. She was the tribe's healer, and he was desperately trying to learn all she knew before she went on to the great beyond. He had decided long ago that his calling was to be a healer also. His father would ask him every day, "Is that old woman dead yet?" as he absently whittled on a piece of wood for a new marionette. And whereas the boy knew that his father, coarse and rough as an old wooden fence post, was only joking, the truth of it was that no one really knew how old she was. Yes, he was joking, but only a little bit. Yet she had knowledge that surpassed all of the elders combined. And she had chosen him to pass on that knowledge. He was learning as fast as he could.
The boy was bright, smarter than most of the others his age in the tribe. He could read, and write, one of the few in his tribe who could, thanks to his mother. He spoke two languages well, and two more he knew enough of to get along. He was still scrawny, his head too big for his shoulders, and he was constantly pushing the black fall of hair back from his eyes. But the gypsy life was a hard one, and the muscles in his arms and shoulders were beginning to show that he would soon be a strapping young man. If he lived that long. Their life was a precarious one, Queen Victoria would often tell him. The darkness could come for them at any time.
The Great War seemed far away from their valley, but they had heard the news and seen the signs of destruction in familiar places, and everyone in the tribe knew that it could engulf them at any moment. It seemed to the boy that it had been going on for as long as he had been alive, at least as long as he could remember. He didn't know what peace was, he only knew the fear and anxiousness that made the adults wary and cautious, suspicious of strangers and avoiding all soldiers. That was what he knew of life. But here in the valley they were safe, for as long as the Baron and his ilk let them be. It was one of the last safe places, and everyone knew it.
As bad luck would have it, one of the shepherds had taken ill over the winter. Queen Victoria had been tending him the best she could, but her supplies were low after the long cold winter, and because of the war they had not traveled to where those supplies could be replenished, as they usually did. She had waited as long as she could. Spring had not yet arrived in the valley, shadowed on all sides by the high Balkan Alps. The old gypsy healer knew that south over the pass, and down into the foothills, the plant she called Chuska, would be blooming. Within the crushed petals was the medicine that would cure her patient, combined with the right amounts of herbs and brewed into a tea. But the Chuska would not bloom in their valley for another two months, and that would be too late.
"Little bird," she told him, using her pet name for the boy, "I would fly away myself, but these old bones will fail in those high roads. We do not suffer the ice well these long days." She wrapped the shawl tighter around her tiny shoulders, as if to ward off a deathly chill.
"I can get the Chuska," he had told her. And she smiled, an eerie sight that he had gotten used to, with the wrinkles on her face folding into each other so that it looked like her face might disappear completely. She still had most of her teeth, a fact attributed to her strict caution against eating any sugar. Her teeth looked small and yellow against the pale pink gums, but her blue eyes still twinkled with delight.
Father had shrugged and said it was fine with him if the boy went. Mother protested, surely someone else could go? But with the shepherd ill, his sons were busy with the new lambs being dropped in the flock, and they needed healthy lambs to pay the Baron, lest they find themselves evicted from the valley. The other men were too slow or dumb to go. And everyone was afraid of the Nazis. They all had heard what the Nazis were doing to gypsies. No one wanted to leave the sanctuary of the valley. Latveria, small, remote and isolated by the high mountains that surrounded her, had thus far remained free of the war that terrorized the rest of Europe. What deal the Baron had made to make it so, no one knew. Perhaps there was nothing here anyone wanted. That was fine with the gypsies who sheltered here, but to a people who had traveled the depth and breadth of Europe it had made their world painfully small. Those that once wandered far were now forced to stay, waiting out the war and praying.
"I'll be gone three days, that's all," the boy had told Mother. "I'll stay in the woods where no one will find me. I know the way. The Germans won't care about one small boy in the forest." His Mother, who was half German herself, had relented. He was growing up too fast for her, but his arguments were sound. Gypsy boys were notoriously independent, and to go off alone in the forest for a few days at his age was not that unusual. Except now there was war, and times were changing. But the fates were conspiring against her, so she relented. She insisted on cutting his hair and making him wear a new sweater, anything that would make him look less like a gypsy. And she would worry about him until he returned.
The boy didn't ride his pony that morning, choosing instead to lead the fat little mare by her lead rope as he searched through the forest undergrowth for the plants that would save the shepherd's life. He quickly found a large patch of Chuska, just where the old woman had told him to look. The small purple flowers were peeking through the undergrowth around a tight cluster of flat, thick green leaves still moist with the morning dew. He harvested them as the healer had shown him, careful not to crush the blossoms as he put the whole plant into his shoulder bag. He cleared out one patch then moved on to find some more, until he was certain he had enough. It was midday by then. As he continued kicking through the undergrowth around the base of a large oak tree, he found the other treasure he was looking for. The deep musty smell of the fruited mushrooms was unmistakable. The small black truffles were a prized delicacy in the markets of the rich. The gypsies wouldn't use them, but the boy knew that he could sell them at market, and the money would bring needed supplies for his mother and father. He dug around the base of the tree with his hands until he uncovered the fruited body of the forest fungus, and carefully wrapped the delicacy in a bit of white cloth. He placed them in his bag next to the Chuska.
The quiet of the forest was broken again, this time by the caw of a flock of crows bursting into the air overhead. The boy jumped onto the back of Ghost, the little pony bucked a little bit, but then settled down under the firm pressure of the boy's knees. He trotted her through the trees until he could see what had disturbed the birds. Up ahead there was a road, and he could see the dust coming up the hill from a jeep that was rapidly passing below him. He stayed out of sight behind the trees, but the soldiers were too busy to even look up from their passage. He looked further down the hill, and realized that he was closer to the village than he had thought. He watched as the green jeep sped out of the forest toward the village. Down there, along a narrow river, was a cluster of a few small dirty houses, smoke rising from their chimneys. A few people were walking about, women with baskets, a man leading a donkey, two children playing around a toppled fence. There was a large stone church there, a bright spire piercing the sky. The jeep sped through the village, scattering the villagers as it passed, and then stopped at a low building next to the church. The two soldiers jumped smartly out.
The crows above him were still protesting as the boy stood there, lost in thought. He had not planned to go home tonight, it would be too risky with the pass still frozen in the grips of winter and the day was nearly half done already. He chewed on a piece of stick as he thought, his legs lazily draped over the bare back of his pony. The little mare stomped her foot and swished her tail impatiently. He decided that he didn't like the elder woman's nickname of little bird for him any longer. He wanted to be known as "crow", and he smiled. He would be bold, and raucous. And fly away hurling curses if he was challenged. He lifted the bag containing the truffles, and another plan began forming. He didn't see the danger of it, this sleepy little village. Even the soldiers didn't seem that threatening. Besides, there were only two of them.
The boy tied his pony up next to a fence on the outskirts of the village, and walked into town like he owned the place. His shoes were worn and dirty, but his sweater was neat and he had a cap that he pulled down tight about his eyes, so that no one could see them darting about assessing the situation as he walked. He didn't want to look lost; he had to look like he belonged there. He steered well clear of the church and the ominous green jeep that was parked there. Some children his age had gathered around the jeep with curiosity, so they didn't notice him as he passed. He had watched the village from the hillside so he already knew where he needed to go. He arrived at the grocer's place, and straightened the sweater. He would be in and out in no time at all, but there was still a nervous tickle at the back of his neck. Before he lost his nerve, he opened the door and walked in.
The place was long, dark and grimy, the windows at the front the only natural light. There was a single electric lamp with a bare bulb overhead, and an oil lantern sputtered on a table near the back. Some wilted old vegetables were arrayed about in a cart at the center of the floor, and there were canned and boxed goods on the shelves behind it. There was some type of food service here as well. A row of tables lined the walls on the left. On the right halfway back was a bar. Two men chatted with the man who must be the shop keeper, and the chef as well by the greasy apron that he wore. The men were leaning against the tall bar, their dirty boots propped up on upturned milk crates on the floor. Four men sat at a single table near the back, their heads low over cups of steaming beverage. The boy saw it all at a single glance, but no one looked at him as he entered.
A woman came in from the back, popping brightly through a swinging door. Her crisp white dress was an incongruous sight in this dungeon of a store. She too wore an apron, also white with little blue flowers embroidered on the trim, and her dark hair was neatly tied up under a white linen cap. She saw the boy and smiled, then turned to cleaning some of the old vegetables out of their display cart. He guessed she was about his mother's age, and she would be far easier to do business with than the sour old man behind the bar.
"Excuse me miss," he said politely, "my papa has sent me to sell some mushrooms."
"Oh?" she said. "Who's you're papa, then? I don't recall seeing you around here before."
"We've not been here before," he said, comfortable with a little bit of the truth. He had known that she would ask, but he didn't elaborate. The less she knew the better, and as long as he appeared sincere she wouldn't question further, he hoped. He opened his sack and pulled out the cloth he had wrapped around the delicate truffles.
"Oh," she said again, but this with a hint of surprise. Then she examined his crop with an expert eye. "These are very good, you're lucky to get them so early."
The boy shrugged, then said, "We have a pig," knowing that pigs were legendary at finding truffles. He would not reveal to her that he was gypsy, and that gypsies read the signs of the forest like other men read a newspaper. Gypsies don't need animals to tell them where to look for such things. So the story of the pig was another clever lie.
One of the men at the counter guffawed loudly, and said, "Tell your father to sell the pig, we could use some fresh bacon around here."
"Quiet, Leonid," the woman chastised. "We'll be happy to buy these," she said to the boy, "let me get my purse."
But before she could move, the door opened again, and four tall men walked into the store behind the boy. He knew right away, he didn't have to turn around. The expressions on the faces of the men around him told the tale. It was the German soldiers, and the boy watched as the three pairs tall black boots strode past him as if he wasn't there. The two men at the bar didn't bother to finish their drinks; they gathered their coats around them and headed for the door, painfully careful not to brush past the soldiers. One of the soldiers sat at a table by the door, lit a cigarette, and propped his boots up on an empty chair. The man behind the bar scowled, but held his ground as another soldier stepped smartly to the bar. The soldier reached behind the bar for a bottle, pointedly ignoring the bar tender, examined it, and then poured himself a drink into a small glass tumbler. The boy stood as still as a mouse in the center of the room, barely breathing, his heart pounding in his chest.
One of the soldiers strode up to the vegetable cart. He removed an apple, bit it, then spat it out and threw it on the ground. The fourth man began pulling food off of the shelves, a loaf of bread, some cans, a box of biscuits, and a tin of fish. He put them into his rucksack straight away, as if he didn't need to pay for them. The woman gasped, and then tried to protest. Her mouth opened. "No, no no," the soldier wagged his finger at her. She stepped back, silent.
At the back table, one of the four quiet men started to stand, but one of his companions grabbed him by the arm. The boy saw their momentary struggle out of the corner of his eye. It was a quiet protest, wordless glances passing between them as if they were speaking in code. The one that had stood slowly sat back down.
The soldier at the vegetable cart suddenly noticed the boy, still holding his prized truffles in his hands. "Hey, Brezh, look here," he said in German, as he strode up to the boy and knelt down to look closer. "Ah!" was his surprised explanation. Brezh, the other soldier with the rucksack had a similar expression, but he reached out to take the truffles from the boy, opening his pack expectantly. The boy looked into that open pack, and saw that there were more than just groceries in it. A hint of gold caught a bit of light, something that looked like a chalice, and a silver candlestick. The boy thought about the church where he'd seen them park their jeep, and his quick mind knew where those items had come from.
The boy suddenly found his courage, or perhaps it was foolishness, but he stepped back and covered the truffles in the bit of cloth, pulling them away from the outstretched hand. "No!" he said, his voice firm if a little higher pitched than normal.
"Now, see here …" the first soldier's Slavic was stilted and rough.
The boy answered him in German, "Not for free. You must pay for them!"
"Ah!" the soldier exclaimed with surprise for the second time. The soldier still smoking at the table laughed shortly behind a puff of smoke, a deep acidic guffaw. The soldier from the bar stepped up to join the other two.
"What have we here?" the third soldier spoke. His uniform bore insignia that the others did not, and the boy could tell that they answered to him.
"The boy has truffles, Herr Captain," the first soldier explained.
"Indeed," the Captain said. "Let me see them, boy"
The boy opened the bit of cloth carefully so he could see, and reiterated, "Not for free, you must pay." But he had lost a little of his bluster under their withering scrutiny,
"We don't pay, little man," the Captain said, leaning forward. "We have conquered this pathetic little backwater country. We did it in a week. That is because we are the master race. So give us those little gems, or we'll take them from you."
"No!" the boy said again, and stuffed the package back into his bag. The woman, still standing there and pale as ice, gasped. But he held his ground.
"So," the Captain said, standing back up to assess the boy from his full height. "Where are you from, little one? Where is your mother? What is your name?"
The boy chose to answer only one of the questions. He said, "My name is Krahe", using the German word for crow, "and if you won't pay for them I will find someone who will!" He turned as if to go, but the one called Brezh grabbed him by the shoulder and tried to pull the bag from off his back. "No!" the boy cried out.
"Insolent brat!" the soldier said. "Give that to me!"
There was a brief scuffle, and the boy fell to the ground. He could hear the smoking man laughing again, his boots hit the floor as he cheered Brezh on, chastising him good naturedly for being bested by a child. They wrestled over the bag but the boy wouldn't let go. If they took the bag they took the Chuska, and his trip would have been for nothing. Then the boy heard a new voice, German, but a strange accent that he didn't know. "Let the boy go."
The tug at his shoulder loosened, and the boy scrambled away, looking back to see that the four men who had been sitting at the table in the back were now surrounding the three Nazi soldiers. The fourth soldier by the window stood up, but one of the four strangers moved closer to him, ominously. They had no weapons that the boy could see, but somehow they were standing up to the soldiers. The soldiers had stopped, surprised at the intervention, but they didn't seem impressed. The tall blond haired man was holding onto a startled Brezh by the back of his collar. Brezh's rucksack with the stolen loot had fallen to the ground.
"What is this?" the Captain said. "Let go of my man!" he ordered officiously. His Slavic was better than the others, but the big man didn't care to comply either way. "Is this the Resistance?" the Captain snorted. "Or a pack of dirty farmers? What will you fight with, your stench?"
"Careful, Cap …" one of the men said, in English. "Quietly."
The boy gasped, and the soldiers did too. The soldiers stepped back, but this time to draw their weapons. The woman screamed. Somebody yelled a bad word. There was something strange about the four men, but the boy realized what was really strange was that they weren't afraid. Hunched down by the floor under the bar he didn't really see what happened next. There was a round shield that came out of nowhere, he saw red, white, and blue, emblazoned with a star, there was a burst of flame, and another man seemed to suddenly hover above the floor. Shots were fired. Fists were flying, bodies fell to the ground with a thud. The boy wasn't going to stick around. In the midst of the melee he saw an opportunity and an opening, but before he fled he grabbed the rucksack that the soldier called Brezh had dropped on the floor at his feet. Then he bolted for the door. He rationalized stealing it, because they would have stolen from him. Besides, this way his adventure wouldn't be a total loss, as long as he could get out of there alive.
He was out in the street when another army jeep came tearing around the corner. It was followed by a second one, both screeched to a halt in front of the store. How they knew what was happening at the little store, he didn't know, but the four men inside that store were about to be overwhelmed four to one as armed soldiers went charging blindly into the little shop. The odds didn't seem to matter, as the boy ran down the street he looked back to see a pile of German soldiers come rolling out the door almost as quickly as they had charged in. They were followed by an amazing sight, a man, at least the boy thought it was a man, who was completely on fire!
The boy turned then and ran as fast as he could toward where Ghost was tied up, blissfully munching on a bit of grass by the fence post. He leapt atop her wide back, then looked back once more. Whatever was going on back there, the Germans were too preoccupied to chase after him. Sounds of gunfire rippled down the street, followed by cries of agony from the German soldiers. Whoever those strange men were, they must be winning. He hoped they were, but he wasn't going to stick around to find out. His heart was beating like a gypsy drum in his chest, but he indulged in a bit of bravado.
"My name is Werner Von Doom!" He shouted back at them with his fist raised above his head. He did not care if they could hear him or not. "And I am Zefiro!"
He turned and urged Ghost into a gallop, charging up the road as fast as her little legs could take her. He would risk the pass tonight, he didn't dare stay in this country any longer than he had to. "The cold may be the death of me," he thought woefully to himself, "but better than to be captured!"
He kicked his mount onward and upward, off of the road and onto the narrow path that lead to the mountains. The little pony did her best, the climb through the pass was long and hard. As the sun and the last vestiges of warmth disappeared to the west, the reckless gallop turned into a trot, and then a long, laborious walk. For many hours he listened for signs of pursuit, but none came. The lights in the village were long hidden by the forest, and the road was far behind him. He traveled a path barely visible, known only to the gypsies and the mountain people. He still did not stop, he dared not.
He pulled out his blanket, and wrapped it around him to stave off the bitter cold, and begged the little pony to keep going. Ice crunched beneath the pony's hooves, but she did not slip nor falter. Thankfully the weather stayed clear, and a moon that was nearly full lighted their way. But once above the trees, the full strength of the cold bore down upon them like a heavy anvil. As the adrenaline of his flight from the village wore off, the boy's bravado disappeared, and turned to shaking. The gravity of the danger he had been in started to bubble to the surface. He felt the overwhelming urge to cry a little, but fought it down. Still he couldn't stop shaking. Cold and shock were setting in. Alone in the dark, he just wished for his mother's warm embrace. As far as he could tell, it was well past midnight when he reached the top of the pass. Icy clouds that always hovered around these high peaks obscured the valley below and behind, and he felt himself drifting off to sleep as they started down, down, down.
The pony knew the way. Sometime later she stopped, he knew not how long it had been or where he was. But strong hands lifted him off of her back. He felt them strip the reins from his clenched fist and someone carried him into the warmth of a gypsy caravan. A distant voice murmured instructions to boil water. His shoes came off, and more blankets wrapped around him. He was shivering and delirious. An enveloping warmth radiated from somewhere around his feet. He finally stopped shaking. The lights dimmed. He let sleep come fully then.
Werner was a strong boy, and by midday the next day he'd fully recovered. Queen Victoria smiled at him, the Chuska had already been mixed into a tea, and the sick shepherd was showing signs of recovery. He gave her the truffles as well, she could use them or sell them, it mattered not to him. He had the stolen German rucksack as his bounty.
Werner waited until he could go through the contents of the stolen bag alone. In his long flight from the village he hadn't once opened it up to look inside. No one asked him where he got it from, and he told no one of his adventure in the village. No one would question him about it, it was not their way. Good fortune was a gift not to question.
Werner laid out the contents upon his blanket, and decided what to do with each item. He gave the food to his parents, for which they were grateful. He would get to share in some of that too, and that was a good thing. He saved two apples for Ghost, a special treat and a reward for her having seen him safely down the mountain. There was a fine shirt, too big for him, he gave it to his father. The golden goblet and silver candlesticks gave him pause though. He hadn't thought much about God or religion in his short life, but from what he knew he thought that it was sinful to steal from a church, and perhaps he should take them back. He didn't know if he ever would have the nerve to go back there, though. Still, he hid them away someplace safe for now. There was also a pistol in the bag, something he hadn't seen at first. It had a long narrow muzzle and a rounded grip, with a full clip of bullets hidden in the boxy part in front of the trigger. There was an iron cross engraved in the handle. It was sheathed in a neat leather holster. He decided to show it to his papa. His father looked closely, silently at the gun, his weathered face grimacing but curious as his rough hands held the weapon. He decided that he would keep it safe for the boy, but told him that it would always be his if he ever needed it. He would show him how to use it, but they must never let anyone outside of the tribe know that they had it. This was a serious thing, and Werner nodded solemnly that he understood.
The last thing in the bag was a bit of an enigma to Werner. It was a blue ball, or a kind of marble, but larger than a marble, like the size of a small lime. It was hard, like glass, but warm. It glowed, as if from inside. Werner held it in his hand, passed it back and forth. He looked deeply at it, mesmerized by the glow and the way the light seemed to move inside it. He felt … he felt a connection to it. It was very curious. This he would keep for himself. This and the rucksack, which was a very nice bag, much better than the old tattered shoulder bag he had used to gather the Chuska. He used a knife to tear off the Nazi insignia that were embroidered on the side of the thick denim straps. It would be a useful thing, and he would get many years out of it. He would keep the blue ball in one of the pockets, but that one he would never show to anyone. It was his secret.