DOOMSAGA I: THE BOOK OF THE TAROT

Chapter Ten: Strength

Hungary, 1956

Werner von Doom raced down the wide staircase through the smoke and haze to where he'd left Cynthia moments before. The hallway on the ground floor had seen some damage. The glass doors were blown inward and half off of their hinges by the explosion that had rocked him earlier on the second floor. But Cynthia had taken refuge behind a stout marble column further down the hall, and she came out of hiding as soon as she heard Werner calling out for her. Werner didn't notice that the geology display case behind him was blown open as he raced down the hallway to embrace Cynthia with breathless gratitude.

"Don't ever leave me like that again!" Cynthia cried out, beating on him with her fists even as she hugged him. "I was so worried about you, you could have died!"

"Never, I'll never do that again, I swear," Werner held her close. Another explosion rocked the building. They both ducked as dust and debris rained down on them from above. "We can't stay here!"

"What of Boris?"

"We'll have to try to find him, somehow," Werner led them out of the building through the broken doorway. They could hear the tanks, rolling through the streets now, and the pop of gunfire and voices shouting. In the distance across the courtyard there were more people running, some with guns. Werner couldn't tell if they were Soviet army or combatants. Fortunately they were far enough away that they didn't pay any attention to the fleeing gypsy couple. "We'll head for the river, try to get out on foot if we have to. Come on!"

There were soldiers with guns everywhere now, swarming the city like ants. Some were engaging pockets of rebel fighters, others were herding small groups of civilians into waiting trucks, and others were setting up barricades across select roads. Werner instinctively avoided them all as best they could, racing across open roads and disappearing into the shadows of broken buildings. Cynthia did better than that, though, she grabbed a familiar bramble in one hand as they ducked around a corner and dropped over a low wall into a garden behind a house. She said a quick incantation as Werner caught his breath, then crushed a few of the dry leaves over their heads.

Slightly annoyed, Werner brushed the leaves out of his hair. "What was that?" he asked her ungraciously.

"Protection," Cynthia answered. To anyone not looking directly at them, they would see only the leaves of a bush.

"Okay," Werner shrugged, not really buying into his lover's beliefs in gypsy magic and incantations, "but still, let's try to keep out of sight."

Cynthia just smiled sweetly, and followed along with him willingly. She wasn't offended by his pandering to her magic skills. She actually preferred that he didn't really believe anyway. It would be easier for him that way, later on.

Cautiously, Werner led the way, thankful for his intimate knowledge of the city and the back roads not often traveled. Still, they must have passed a dozen or more foot soldiers without being seen. Then they had to duck into a building to escape being caught up in the crossfire between a squad of soldiers and a well-armed group of Hungarian rebels. By such luck they found Boris.

"Boris!" Cynthia shouted as soon as they had crossed the threshold into the building. They were in a hardware store that was familiar to Werner. The door had been broken in and anything that could be used as a weapon had been stripped from the shelves by a rapidly moving mob. Boris was sitting by a window, an ax clutched in his hand. His bearded face had aged ten years in less than an hour. He looked wan and pained. Cynthia gasped. "Werner, come quickly! It's Boris! He's been hurt!"

Werner had paused by the broken door to see if anyone from the skirmish outside was following them, and he rushed over at Cynthia's urgent call.

"Thank God we've found you!" Werner said happily as he clasped a hand on the other's shoulder.

"The thanks are mine," Boris replied weakly. His face was covered in soot and sweat, his beard was streaked with gray dust. He had propped himself up on a ledge by the window so he could look out without being seen, but he'd been able to do no more than wait with the axe clutched desperately in his hands.

Werner then looked down and saw the dark stain that had saturated Boris' pant leg. He quickly dropped down to examine his friend's wound. He pulled a small knife from his bag and slit open the other man's pants leg from ankle to thigh, and he gasped slightly at what he saw. Boris had taken a bullet to his right knee. The bullet had gone clear through the leg and shattered his knee cap. He had lost a lot of blood. Werner immediately began to tend to the wound, but he knew that Boris was not walking out of here. He prepared a bandage to halt the bleeding, and instructed Cynthia to find something with which to make a splint. Cynthia made a fine nurse, she followed his directions readily and fearlessly, and she didn't cry and make a fuss over the sight of their friend's blood and mangled flesh. Werner was grateful for her steady bravery, when he questioned his own. Working on the wound with his familiar skills helped to quell the sense of panic he was feeling well up in his heart. They found some water and made a quick tonic that would help Boris to regain some of his strength. Outside, the brief firefight had moved further down the street.

Boris felt a little better, thanks to Werner's learned ministrations, but they both knew that he wasn't going to be able to walk very far. As Cynthia continued to look through the hardware store for anything they could use as a crutch to help him stand, Boris caught Werner by the arm and looked him in the eye. "You have to leave me," he said, "you'll never get out of here in time. I'll only slow you down."

"We won't leave you," Werner said firmly. "You're coming with us. You have to!"

"Listen, there's a motorbike, it's in a safe shed across the river, I can tell you where it is," Boris fished into his pocket for a key and pressed it into Werner's hand. "Go, take Cynthia, get out of here before it's too late!"

"No!" Werner said, taking the key but denying his wounded friends' wishes. "We won't leave without you."

Cynthia came back with a bit of wood, long enough for Boris to use as a cane. "What's this talk of leaving?" she demanded. "You're coming with us!"

"Cynthia, you could get the motorcycle, bring it back here, I'll stay with Boris," Werner suggested.

"No!" Cynthia protested. "We're not separating!" She didn't say "again", but Werner knew that's what she meant. "We all go together, or not at all!"

Outside an ominous rumbling sound drowned out any further protest. A huge tank rolled down the road outside of their window. Soldiers on foot flanked it on either side. The tank stopped, and a deafening boom sent the three gypsies to the floor as the tank fired its main gun down the embattled street. The soldiers beside the tank were crouched down covering their heads, but if they'd looked through the open door they would have seen the fleeing gypsies.

Without any further discussion, Werner placed his arm under Boris and half lifted, half dragged him to the back of the store. A back door opened onto an empty alley, too narrow for a tank to pass. They headed for the river, Boris hobbling along supported by Werner's strong shoulder and the makeshift crutch. But he was weak, and the going was slow. Cynthia stayed ahead of the pair, keeping a close watch out and continuing to urge Boris forward.

The Soviets had mounted a crushing attack on the city. They had entered the city from two sides, from the south and the north, pushing ever forward and squeezing the rebellion into a tight, inescapable circle. The rebels were valiant, but their efforts were fruitless against the heavy arms the Soviets brought to bear. One or two tanks were hobbled by brave men placing Molotov cocktails in their tracks, blowing the tread off until the machine could be rushed by the mob, its gunners pulled out and shot and the tank burned. Still others barricaded themselves behind block walls or engaged in running firefights. Block walls were blown away by heavy artillery or crushed under the treads of the Soviet tanks. The running skirmishes succumbed to the well-oiled and disciplined Soviet army. Thousands had died, the cold wet streets were warmed by their blood. But thousands of citizens had managed to escape in those first few hours and their exodus would continue throughout the night and on into the following days. With only the clothes on their back, they rushed blockaded streets and jumped walls, scurried down back roads and alley ways, crossed boggy fields, and swam icy cold rivers. Some were carrying children, or urging the little ones too big to carry to hurry along with them. They were all frightened, grown men, women and children alike. No one knew what the morrow would bring. Some holed up in churches or tiny outbuildings in farms outside the city, waiting for their chance to flee. The lucky ones headed west, toward Austria. Austria was freedom.

Werner, Cynthia and Boris headed east. It had taken them nearly an hour to go only a mile through the beleaguered city. They had miles still to go. Each passing step Boris had taken was more painful than the last. The fighting at least seemed to be far behind them. But Werner knew by the weak pulse on his friend that Boris would walk no further on his own. They stopped to rest by an old stone wall at the side of a road.

"How much further to the motorbike, Boris?" Cynthia asked as she offered him a bit of water from a flask she'd taken from the store.

Boris barely lifted his head. "Across the river," he said weakly. He closed his eyes.

Cynthia looked up at Werner with a worried expression that said, "What will we do?" Werner could only shake his head. Just as it seemed hopeless, a glimmer of hope reflected off the windshield glass of an on-coming car. Werner shielded his eyes against the glare. Cynthia was trying to pull Boris out of the road to take shelter behind the stone wall, but Werner was just standing there, in full view of whoever was driving toward them. Then suddenly Werner jumped out into the middle of the street and started waving his arms wildly.

"Werner!" Cynthia cried out. "What if it's the Soviets?"

"I know that car!" Werner explained excitedly, jumping up and down as he waved. He caught a glimpse of hawkish nose, pale complexion and round rimmed spectacles behind the wheel of the small two-door car. The car was driving as fast as it could, all of 30 miles per hour, blowing smoke every fifty feet, and sliding unsteadily on tires missing most their tread. But it was a car nonetheless, it was transportation out of here. Werner thought their salvation had arrived in that smoking, oil-burning jalopy.

"Hauptmann! Gert! It's me, Werner!" He yelled, jumping up and down. Hauptmann almost didn't stop, but he would have had to run over Werner, who was blocking most of the road. As it was, he barely stopped in front of the wildly jumping gypsy. The brakes on his old car were none too good, either. As soon as the car stopped, Werner raced over to the driver's side window and addressed his fellow student. "Thank the gods, you're here," Werner said breathlessly. "My friend is hurt, we need a ride across the border. Please, you've got to help us!"

Hauptmann glanced over the opening in the driver's side window. "Oh, it's you, that Von Doom."

"Yes, it's me," Werner's enthusiasm was pinched by Hauptmann's cold response. "Please, my friend will die if we don't get him out of here."

Hauptmann looked over to where the girl was kneeling next to a waxen faced gypsy man who'd passed out at the side of the road. "It looks like he's already dead," he said callously. "Besides, I haven't the room!"

"What?" Werner said, exasperated. There was a small back seat, with a few boxes and suitcases, but they could have squeezed in. "You've plenty of room here," Werner protested. "Please! I helped you once before on the road. Won't you return the favor?"

Hauptmann glared at Werner angrily. "You already asked me for that favor in return, and I granted it," he lied viciously. "This is no taxi and I said there is no room! You dirty gypsies can find another way out! Good day!" He haughtily ground the gears of his little car as he turned his gaze to the front with a set jaw that resolutely refused to acknowledge any further protestations. The little car lurched forward, and sputtered and coughed down the road, abandoning the gypsy trio to their fate in a plume of black, oil-laced smoke.

"Hauptmann, no! You can't! Hauptmann!" Werner cried after him as he drove off. "Hauptmann! Hauptmann!" He lifted his hands in the air pleadingly, but to no avail. The little car was quickly disappearing in the distance. "You … bastard!" Werner shouted after him. Under his breath he muttered a string of expletives through gritted teeth, hoping that Cynthia didn't hear. He could do nothing more than seethe in bitter anger. "I won't forget this, you bastard!" he thought.

Cynthia stepped up beside him and placed a calming hand upon his clenched fist. "It's all right, Werner," she said softly, "we'll find another way."

Werner fumed for a moment longer, then he calmed himself, finding some quiet, peaceful place in his soul to ward off the anger that threatened to engulf him in madness. He still had work to do. He turned back around to check on Boris. The older man had passed out, his pulse was weak. His strenuous exertions had renewed the bleeding in his leg. The bandages were soaked. Werner checked him over once more quickly. Then he handed his satchel and his hat to Cynthia, who silently placed the strap over her shoulder and the hat upon her own head. He removed his overcoat and placed it on Boris, buttoning it up to help keep his friend warm and hopefully ward off the threat of him going into shock. It was still quite cold out, and now Werner could feel the chill piercing his thin shirt. Then he steeled himself, crouched down, and hoisted Boris over his shoulder, one hand on Boris' arm and the other on his good leg. The wounded right leg with its makeshift splint dangled down around the small of Werner's back. Boris was a big man, he was no lightweight, and unconscious as he was now he was a dead weight on Werner's strong back. But Werner was tall, and strong. It was a good lift. Werner would carry him as far as he could.

"Let's go," he said calmly, and Cynthia dutifully led the way.

There was an old Roman bridge across the Danube. It was too narrow for most cars, far too fragile for a tank, and it led to a road that ended beyond the flatland of the farms in the forested hill country. In short, it was a bridge that most forgot. It was nearly dusk by the time they reached it, the short arc of the late fall sun had finished its work for the day. A smoky haze rose from the city at their backs, further obscuring the last weak rays of the sun. The sounds of gunfire and cannon shot had finally been replaced by the quiet hush of the countryside. But there were few buildings or trees out this way, no place to hide should an army truck or foot patrol decide to turn down this road in search of refugees or rebels. Soon too, the last of the gypsy caravans would be leaving from their campsite in the hills beyond, headed for the border with Latveria, with or without their leader Boris. Cynthia's Aunt Rebecca too, would the simple old woman leave with the others, or wait for her niece? To wait could mean she too would be trapped if the Soviet patrols started closing off the border crossings to the east. All of these thoughts plagued Werner as they walked along in silence. Werner quickened his pace the best he could, and was heartened only by the pulse he could still feel in Boris' dangling wrist, and the brave woman who stayed resolutely by his side.

Werner was nearly spent by the time they reached the farmhouse. Boris had described a shed by a copse of trees, a short way down from the road in a little hollow. It was a fine hiding place, most wouldn't know it was there until they were right upon it. They were lucky to find it with Boris still unconscious.

Werner stumbled down the rough dirt road to the door of the shed. Gently he lowered Boris to the ground beside the shed, Cynthia helped him. They leaned the gypsy leader against the gray slat wood sides of the small building. Werner stepped over and opened the twin doors just a crack to look inside the shed. He caught a glimpse of the gleaming headlight to the motorbike Boris had secreted away inside, staring back at him like an eye through the dim interior of the shed. Werner breathed a sigh of relief to finally have some good news that day, and then asked for his satchel back from Cynthia.

Cynthia gasped, "Oh Werner, your shirt! It's soaked with blood!"

Blood and sweat had mixed on his back, so the spread of blood looked worse than it actually was. But Boris leg had stopped bleeding, and his heart rate had stabilized some. Werner carefully undid the bandages, and rewrapped the knee, leaving out the splints they'd used earlier. "It'll be all right," he finally said. "The worst is over, once we get to the camp we'll get him warm and his strength will return in time. I'm afraid he'll always walk with a limp, though." Werner quietly accepted a bit of water and some late season berries Cynthia had picked at the side of the road. The short rest from his burden and the little bit of sugar had brightened his mood, too. The betrayal of Hauptmann seemed a lifetime away.

"Let's see if this motorbike will start," he said, and finally opened the twin doors to the shed fully upon their hidden prize.

"The key will start it," a voice inside said, "but you won't be riding it anywhere."

"Oh, no," Cynthia sighed with exhausted frustration.

Werner had just about had enough of disappointment for the day. It just didn't seem to end for him. Standing inside the shed beside the motorbike and side car were two of his former college chums, Franz and Gregorio. They had their traveling clothes on, and from the mess of wires pulled out of the ignition housing they had obviously been attempting to hot wire the bike as they had taken refuge inside the covered shed. But Werner was not going to let them steal it out from under him, not after all they'd been through that day.

Franz had a different idea in mind. The big man sneered at Werner, "I see you won the hand of your gypsy dancer," he said, leering at Cynthia. He motioned to Gregorio, who started to push the motorbike out of the shed. "Don't think I'll let you get the drop on me like before," Franz warned. He kept a safe distance from Werner, mindful of the last time they'd fought. He caught sight of Boris as they walked out of the shed pushing the motorbike in front of them. Werner backed up, but didn't take his furious eyes off of the two Hungarians, and his hands clenched into fists. "Looks like your dead gypsy friend won't be coming to your rescue this time either."

"He's not dead, and the bike is not yours," Cynthia protested, glaring at him with a fiery anger in her voice.

"Shut up," Franz growled.

Gregorio chimed in, "To the winners goes the spoils, chippie."

Werner was forced back as the two continued to push the motorbike out onto the rough roadway. He was silently weighing his options. His right hand disappeared into the satchel around his shoulder. It quickly found the gun. Without looking he placed his hand around the broom handle grip, and released the safety with his thumb. Then he placed his foot on the front of the side car, and pushed back against Gregorio, stopping the bike from moving any further.

"Let go of the bike, now," he intoned coldly.

"Or what, gypsy?" Franz answered fearlessly. "Two against one, Werner. And we're taking the motorbike to Austria. End of discussion."

"No, you're not," Werner felt the fury rise inside him again. He was tired, but more than that he was tired of being treated like a second class citizen. "I have the key, and the bike is ours."

"Then you'll give us the key," Franz snarled menacingly, and like a snake he reached out and grabbed Cynthia. Before she could pull away he spun her around and placed his thick arm around her slender neck. "Or I'll break your little whore's neck." Cynthia struggled against his hold, but the big man was strong, and he squeezed his arm ever tighter around her throat, choking her. With his free hand he reached out toward Werner, beckoning for him to give him the key. "The key, now, Werner!"

Werner felt the rage fully take hold of him then, and for the first time he let it. He would not back down, not anymore. His cool gray eyes burned with his righteous anger. He imagined in an instant all the ways that he could disable Franz and his associate Gregorio using only his hands, when a commotion behind him stopped them all.

"HALT!"

Franz and Gregorio went white, and stepped back, lifting their hands in the air. Cynthia gasped for air as Franz released her, and jumped away from him as best she could, collapsing to the ground near Werner's feet. Werner froze in his tracks as well and didn't turn around right away.

Boris had done an amazing job restoring the old BMW motorcycle and side car. It looked better than new, the black paint was polished to perfection and every bit of chrome glowed with flawless radiance. The distinctive bullet shaped side car in particular had gone from a rusting, bullet ridden hulk into a shiny, sleek projectile. So shiny, in fact that Werner could see the reflection of the Soviet soldiers on the road behind him in that mirror-like surface.

There were six Soviet soldiers in this small foot patrol. Four of the men were slightly staggered in the center; two were out on either side. They had no doubt been chasing rebels and refugees alike all afternoon, but as the day had waned they had found more harmless civilians than well armed fighters. As such they had grown a little careless. In their long march down the dusty back roads of the countryside they had found it easier to carry their weapons on their backs. Only two of the soldiers now had their guns out and pointed at the group they had found arguing by the shed. One of the other four had his weapon out but it was pointed lazily at the ground. The other three were no doubt resigned to having to detain more unarmed civilians for later "processing" by their commanders at the detention camp to determine if any of them were in collusion with the rebels. And to claim as forfeit any of their capitalist possessions that would now belong to the politburo, such as that fine German motorcycle they were obviously arguing over when the sound of voices raised in anger had alerted the foot patrol to venture down off of the main road. Two of the three remaining soldiers were also looking only at that shiny motorcycle rather than the men gathered around it. Perhaps they were thinking about riding the bike back to camp, rather than trudging along on another tiring, dusty march.

Then too, the small group the Soviet patrol had just captured hardly seemed much of a threat. The two men facing them were unarmed young men, their hands raised in obedient surrender as soon as the soldiers had approached. Those two young men wore expressions of abject fear, almost panic, upon their bloodless faces. If the patrol had managed to actually bring those two young men in, the soldiers would have been praised by their commanders for having detained two of the rebellions' most elusive and principal student leaders. But the soldiers had no idea at the time that they were in the midst of such a grand prize. One woman had fainted upon the ground; she was obviously of no great concern. One bearded man lying by the shed appeared to be dead. The dead man too, would have been well received by their commanders. Such were the vagaries of circumstance, that here in this distant field were three of the most wanted terrorists the Soviet army had been searching for, and for want of an experienced patrol they would have claimed them. And lastly the tall man with his back to the patrol was obviously wounded, as shown by the blood soaked shirt on his back. Maybe he was delirious, because he didn't seem to react at all when the soldiers arrived and began shouting orders at them. Even though he appeared to be the least dangerous of the group, he was in fact the most fearsome foe the soldiers would ever face. That, and the fact that the soldiers had already counted the group as captured, when they were far from it still.

All of this Werner observed in an instant of clarity and insight. With his anger still fresh and hot in his soul, he slowly turned around. His left hand was in the air, but his right hand was still inside the satchel. He knew exactly where each soldier was standing behind him, which ones were an immediate threat and which would take more than a split second to react. As he turned, he didn't even bother to remove the pistol in his right hand from the bag. He didn't hesitate or second guess. He just started firing. The powerful hand gun did the rest. Eight smoking rounds later four of the soldiers were dead, and two would soon be. Their wounds were fatal and their life blood slowly soaked the dusty earth around them as they choked on their last breaths in this world. So fast and surprising was his attack that Werner only missed twice, and not one of the soldiers managed to fire a single round in response. The muzzle of the pistol was sticking out of a round hole in the bottom of his bag, the blackened end still smoking.

He turned back around to face Franz and Gregorio, but now he pulled the pistol out of his bag and pointed it at his old school mates. He knew that there were still two rounds left in the gun. This time, Franz didn't have Cynthia to use as a shield or a hostage. Werner's eyes still blazed with his rage. He was no longer the gypsy healer, he was the vengeful knight of old. His face was a frightening mask of anger, retribution and steely determination. Franz and Gregorio dared not challenge him, not after what they'd just witnessed. Werner didn't say a word, he simply motioned with a slight wave of the end of the weapon. His old college mates backed up in silent acknowledgment, their hands still in the air, and when they were clear of the motorbike, the shed, and the road, they turned and ran across the open field, thankful that they still had their lives. Werner continued to watch them, the pistol raised at their fleeing backsides, until Cynthia's hand on his arm calmed him into finally lowering the gun.

He gasped as the anger drained from him, then struggled to catch his breath.

"Shhh, hush now love," she cooed softly, "we're safe now. Shhh …"

Werner finally looked at her, and he started shaking. The anger had left him, and he was afraid. The gurgling death rattle of the last dying soldier pierced the silence as the dusk settled all around them. He dared not look back at the carnage he had wrought, but that one death haunted him. With that dying soldier, so too died his innocence. He embraced Cynthia, wrapping her in his arms and feeling her life essence infuse him with hope again. His knees almost buckled, but Cynthia held on, helped him to stand and buoyed him up somehow. He closed his eyes and breathed in the softness of her hair and felt the strength of her faith and warm, honest love. It was the only thing that mattered.

Werner finally regained his composure and his control. "I'm ok," he whispered. "Are you all right? Are you hurt?" He brushed her long hair back from her face, and tenderly kissed her forehead with his trembling lips.

"No, no, I'm fine, thanks to you, we're fine," Cynthia assured him.

"Fine, ok, then," Werner looked down at the gun he still held in his hand, almost like it was alien to him. Then he carefully engaged the safety, and replaced it in the leather holster in his bag. He was a little annoyed at the hole in his bag, as if he didn't know how it happened. He could only think about how he would have to have it fixed, he really liked that satchel and it wouldn't do for it to be leaking his potions and supplies out of that hole. He dropped the satchel in the bottom of the side car and walked over to check on Boris. He didn't know it at the time, but he would never fire the gun again.

Boris lifted his head as Werner approached. "That was some shooting there," Boris said weakly. "Didn't know you had it in you."

"Frankly, neither did I," Werner admitted. Werner was surprised that Boris had been aware of what was going on. "But we're not home free yet. Can you stand?"

Boris pushed himself up with one arm, but it was clear he was still too weak, and Werner caught him and lifted him to his feet. He helped him hobble over to the waiting side car, and dropped him carefully into the seat. Cynthia found a jacket inside the shed and helped Werner into it. Werner was thankful, he was feeling the cold even more now, and they had a long ride still ahead of them. He zipped the leather jacket closed and sat down on the bike, familiarizing himself quickly with the controls. Werner fished the key out of his pocket, and the willing engine started up on the first kick. Cynthia took her place behind him on the plank seat, wrapping her arms around his waist. He deftly steered the bike and side car around the bodies of the dead Soviet soldiers, not looking at their faces, but knowing that they would haunt him for a long time. Then they turned up the main road, heading east toward Latveria.

They would catch up to the gypsy caravan later that evening. They didn't stop but kept moving through the night, their long train of gypsy caravans and old jalopies shrouded by the mountain darkness. They would see no more of the Soviet army. Werner tended to Boris all night as his caravan trundled up a mountain pass that was rarely traveled but well known to the gypsy travelers. The news of their flight soon swept through the gypsy convoy. Werner was hailed as a hero for having saved Boris and Cynthia from the Soviets, but Werner did not share the details of their harrowing escape from the besieged Hungarian city. Sometime in the early morning hours their little train crested the summit of the pass, and at first light they were in Latveria at last. Werner looked out on his homeland, the land of his birth that he had left so many years ago as a restless and adventuresome boy. He marveled at those lofty mountain peaks, and the wide serene valley down below. He could see in the warm alpine light of day the many familiar places he knew as a boy, and he found some comfort in feeling like he was coming home. He felt relief at last, and more than just a little sad. And exhausted, too. Boris was weak but he'd survive. Werner finally settled down in a corner with a blanket and let sleep overcome him. He slept a deep, dreamless sleep as they moved slowly into the last home he would ever know.

Cynthia also felt relief at finally arriving in this new world that she had oft dreamed about but had never known. She had reluctantly parted with Werner when they reached the gypsies that evening. Werner had Boris moved to his rolling bungalow with his relations so that he could continue to treat Boris' wounded leg. So she left him with a warm kiss as she retired with her aunt to their gaily painted caravan near the rear of the train. She was tired also, but happy that Werner was with them at last. Their time apart was welcome too, for it gave Cynthia a moment to be on her own, to reflect on all that had happened that day, and to put it into perspective with her dreams and visions. And, to finally secure her secret prize.

In the dark of the caravan interior, Cynthia opened her secret box, and the book with the hidden compartment that contained the two blue stones she had acquired in her travels. From a pocket in her skirt she produced a third blue stone, the one she had stolen that day from the University. When Werner had left her alone in the hallway of the geology building, she had used that time to free the blue gem stone from its ignominious display. She had known that as soon as she saw the glowing blue stone and the magic it displayed that she would not be leaving there without it. As soon as Werner had disappeared up the stairs, she leapt into action. Working quickly, she had used a tall metal ash can to break the display glass. But the blue gem was cemented into the larger meteor, and she no way to carry the entire rock in secret. No amount of prying would free the blue gem from its bed of stone. In a moment of crystal lucidity, Cynthia had pulled Werner's blue gem out from the pocket of his satchel. Where centuries worth of chipping and chiseling had never managed to free the blue stone in all the years that the meteorite had been passed down from one generation to the next, by simply placing Werner's blue gem next to the meteor the imbedded blue stone quite naturally oozed out of its thousand-year old bed inside the dense meteor rock and dropped into her hand. She had tucked this new blue gem into the pocket of her skirt, returned Werner's stone to his satchel, and had said nothing of it to Werner when he returned from Dr. Messler's office moments later.

Now safe inside her closed cabin, she placed the third stone next to its two sisters inside her book, but curiously there was no reaction at all. She had expected a brilliant display like the one she'd seen when Werner's stone had come close to the meteor's gem. She had seen a similar reaction when the two blue gem stones she originally had first came close to each other. But there wasn't even the faintest spark of life when she brought the three stones together. It was strange and unexpected, and she was more than a little disappointed. She examined the stones again. They were identical in every way. She didn't understand. Perhaps there was some required order to these things, or maybe once they flashed so brilliant, they would never do so again. Still, she had to believe that there was something magical or mystical about these blue glass gems of light and energy. She would find out. And that fourth stone? She had no doubt that Werner would soon give it to her.

She carefully hid the three gems away in her strong box, and climbed back outside to greet the new day and see this new country they were entering for the first time. She sat on the plank next to Rebecca, and quietly took in the majesty of this tiny, hidden nation where they hoped to find lasting refuge. As their pack horses pulled the caravan down the sides of the Latverian steppes, jostling and bouncing, she had a calming premonition. Maybe she would never know what the blue gems were, and maybe she would never be able to harness their secret power. But her son would. She smiled. Yes, that was a comforting thought. Her son would know. She gazed out on the green lush valley before them and for the time being she embraced her future.