The Age of Spirits by Lenka Polackova

A young maid able to communicate with spirits draws the attention of both the elite and the dark forces. A historical fantasy novel set in the 19th-century city of Olomouc by Czech novelist Lenka Polackova (Olmütz).

The book has been published only in Czechia in the Czech language (2023). The rights to the book are available.

The book's cover was awarded first place in the "The Best Cover of 2023" category at the Humbook Awards 2023. 

Summary

Don’t listen to the spirits’ whispers

The year is 1895, and luxurious mansions are growing instead of poppies on the bare meadows around Olomouc. In one of these beautiful German houses works a Czech girl, Žofie, as a maid. Her life is not easy, and everything becomes even more complicated when her childhood crush returns, along with a secret she has been hiding for years – she hears the voices of the dead. Thanks to her ability, she becomes a favourite of the local bourgeoisie. However, she now gets entangled with powers playing with her mind and senses. Can she control them before it is too late? A story taking place in historical Olomouc filled with suspense, love, and an unlikely allyship by Czech novelist Lenka Polackova.

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Translated by Katerina Blahova. The English text has yet to undergo professional editing and proofreading.

Historical background (prologue)

I was born to the rhythm of waltz and the sound of steam pistons. Into a world full of fear but also hope. And while I was growing up, the long nineteenth century was coming to its end.

Back then, there was a massive divide between social groups: the Czechs and the Germans, factory owners and factory workers, the bourgeoisie and the proletariat. Everyone lived in their impermeable worlds, lost in the vast, tragically split Austrian monarchy.

The emperor and his government were trying to put the shards of their empire together through centralisation, which only sharpened the edges between the court and the national governments, and through censorship, banning any revolutionary ideas which would serve as the last hope for a brighter future. Although serfdom had been abolished, the working class could hardly feel free; instead, they had become replaceable components of production processes without access to education or healthcare.

Even our languages, Czech and German, divided us. However, both had a particular form of addressing servants and those of lower status, so no one ever forgot his social standing at home and in society.

Nevertheless, no matter how strange my world was, I am certain that the events that happened to me could occur in any other century. Because there are things that don’t change and darkness that doesn’t die.

Chapter 1

“It looks like Mom, don’t you think?”

I squinted as I looked at the white plaster face’s disturbing grin, its features exaggerated, eyes noticeably deep-set with pupils depicted with holes in the bulging eyeballs, and ears widely stretched out. It almost didn’t look like a human, but instead like an ugly bat.

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Just a little,” Ambrož hesitated and also squinted his eyes.

We stared at the mascaron slowly drying on the wooden board. All the oil lamps in the plastering workshop glowed, even though the sun outside was just setting. Absentmindedly, Ambrož wiped his hands smudged with plaster into his apron, white crumbs falling to the ground like the first snow.

“Not at all,” I said firmly.

“Then maybe only because it’s smiling,” he shrugged. “It’s a new mould; people nowadays want even their houses to smile at them. No one’s interested in terror and wailing anymore.”

I furrowed my brow hesitantly. Does it really remind him of Mom? I could feel chills running down my spine at the sight of the unnatural smile more than at the sight of wailing grimaces. However, I didn’t want to ruin my brother’s joy from his finished work. “Master will like it for sure.”

“He really should,” he laughed. “We don’t have time to make a new mould. These ladies were supposed to be on the façade of the house this week already. It won't be on time, of course, not to mention those we are supposed to deliver next week, and we don't even know what they'll look like…"

“I brought your laundry.”

He went quiet and turned to me. The warm light of the lit oil lamps entangled in his hair, growing longer and longer. Perhaps he simply didn’t have time to stop by a barber, or more likely, he used it as his expression of defiance, just like his unkempt, overgrown beard and his very old, ill-suited vest, which used to belong to our father and which Ambrož wore for the last ten years to demonstrate that he couldn’t afford anything more.

He could, but he didn’t want to. Master Vyhnálek paid him a decent salary, probably because the number of orders coming to the plastering workshop each month was significantly higher than the last, and there was no one else far and wide able to satisfy the growing demand.

“You have a lot on your plate too, I know,” he said warmly. “Thank you, Žofie, for caring for me and coming to see me.”

He reached for me with his plaster-covered hands to hug me or just stroke my hair, but I managed to dodge him in time. "Stop! Do you want me to wash it all over again?"

He grinned. Waving his dirty fingers, he let the plaster snow flutter all over the place, causing me to disperse it like an annoying swarm of bees. He laughed at me, and I ended up laughing alongside him.

We would fool around much longer if it hadn’t been for Kuba, the younger apprentice, walking in; I greeted him with a quick, small bow. He was still a boy, shorter than me, usually quiet. Every time I saw him, I remembered what Ambrož once told me about him: “He often cries for his parents before sleep.”

A lucky boy. If he cried for them loudly, it meant that he could still be with them, even if he couldn’t at that very moment. That they were alive, and they loved him. Those who lost their parents forever would cry much quieter, deeper and more serious tears than a boy just missing them.

“Let’s go.” Ambrož took my hand and led me out of the workshop.

We ran up the steep staircase to the plasterers' quarters in the attic. I knew my brother's room well, so I wasn't surprised by the mess there: scattered papers, unfinished sketches, red chalk dust on the ground, his featherbed crumpled up in the corner of this bed.

“I’m sorry for any girl willing to ever marry you, Ambrož Kotržal. For the good of all the girls in Olmütz, I should terribly disfigure you so that none of them even looks your way.”

“You’re really heated today, Žofie,” he frowns. “What’s up with you? A bad day at Pfeiffers’?”

Bad day… How does one even know what a bad day means?

Although it was the very end of September, that day was so warm, the sun shining so brightly as if it had forgotten that summer had long ended. Its rays played in the fragrant gardens, drawing out humidity and colouring the asters at the gate of the Pfeiffers' house in beautiful shades of purple, violet, dark pink and fuchsia, all dancing in the light breeze.

Next to such beauty, all the day's grievances pale in comparison. Mrs Paulina raging in the early morning and blowing up at me for the muddy rug in the entrance hall, even though it had been smudged by young Mr Leopold who had come home late in the night; old Mrs Eugenie watching me like a hawk just to make sure I wasn’t stealing her starched napkins or drinking her milk; Mr Pfeiffer disgracefully slapping my behind at the breakfast when the ladies weren’t looking…

“What is that?” I asked instead, snapping out of my thoughts. Before Ambrož could reply, I pulled a thin German book from under an open notebook filled with scribbles and a spread-out newspaper. Kropotkin: Anarchist Morality.

“Ambrož, you must’ve gone mad!”

“Don’t yell,” he hissed and tore the dirty pamphlet from my hands.

“Leaving this lying on the desk? Really? Have you lost your mind?”

“I’m working on… something,” he deflected.

I shot my gaze from Ambrož to the desk and snatched the open notebook. The scribbles were in Czech: The cursed idea of reward and punishment is always in one’s way of thinking. Everywhere we encounter the ill-advised remainder of religious teaching, which leads us to believe a deed is good only if it’s inspired by God…

My gaze found my brother's face. I could feel my throat turning dry as my hands shook. Partly from anger and mostly from fear. "Are you… translating this?"

He pursed his lips into a thin line and childishly hugged the German book close to his chest. “And what about it? I’m doing humanity a favour.”

“Humanity?” I growled. “Humanity? And what about your family?! What favour are you doing your family, you utter fool? This is high treason. You’ll get locked up for this! You’ll get convicted for this, Ambrož!”

My own voice grew weak in my throat from the image alone. Convicted, I heard in my mind over and over. Convicted!

“No one’s going to find out.”

No one’s going to find out. How many people have said these words? All of them! Each and every one of them hoped that they wouldn’t be found out, but they all were anyway…

My tongue was brimming with many angry remarks, reprimands, and laments, but instead of them pouring out of me, my lips froze in fear. With my chin quivering, I extended my hand, holding onto the bundle of his washed shirts towards him.

They smelled like soap and autumn sun. I washed them together with the big laundry at Pfeiffers', even though no one allowed me to. That was my expression of defiance, my revolt. My own hands scrubbed all the plaster remains off them; I washed and rinsed them, mangled and ironed them.

The idea of him wearing one of these shirts when the k. k. Gendarmerie rushes into his attic room, of him, wearing one when he's tied down and dragged away, of him wearing one when he's interrogated, jailed and judged… This idea clenched my stomach in despair, drawing hot tears into my eyes.

He understood. The dourness slowly disappeared from his face.

"Come here, my little laundress," he whispered. He put that stupid book down on the desk and opened his arms. He embraced me with the bundle of shirts, squeezing me like our mother used to do, not gently, but warmly and tightly enough for me to lose breath, firmly enough to feel it on my skin long after being let go.

Wrapped in his embrace, I banished my tears and anger. I have only you left, I heard in my soul, but I didn't have to say it out loud. My head pressed close to his chest, and I could hear loud and clear that his heart was crying the same thing. I have only you left, dearest sister.

“I promise to hide it better next time.”

He couldn’t promise me more without lying.

“Okay.”

~

When I came out of the plasterer Master Vyhnálek’s house to Schneeburggasse Street that evening, a train was just leaving the Neugasse station down the street. The white cloud of dust rolled down the busy avenue of recently planted linden trees, carrying the scent of ashes and rotting leaves of the decorative chestnut trees. Mud splattered on the road under the wheels of carriages occupied by gentlemen returning to their beautiful new homes in Beamtenviertel while a cold breeze blew through Olmütz.

The sun had almost set over the ploughed fields, dispelling all doubt about the summer ending. Cold waves penetrated the dusk as a lamplighter with a long pole walked from one lamp to another, banishing the night.

At that moment, the icy air spread under my woollen plaid, my hair standing on its ends in a glum warning. It’s here again!

Crossing arms on my chest, I rubbed them with my hands as my stomach started fiercely shaking. Darkness gathered around me as fear pulsed through my mind. An unnatural, impossible kind of fear that made my heart race.

In such moments, there was only one thing I could do. Hastily repeating prayers in my head, I ran through the streets to the safety of the Pfeiffers’ house.

It’s going to be alright now, the pastor said back then.

It’s going to be alright now, Žofie.

But he was wrong…

Chapter 2

I was ten back then.

Hodolany glistened in the hot summer sun, crops in the fields all around turning gold, apples swinging on the trees in the gardens, the Bystřička river humming in its narrow riverbed. The fertile soil of Haná worked hard to live up to its reputation.

The tavern U Mačáků was lively that day, the scent of roast pork wafting through the windows along with the tinkling of tankards and singing of Czech national songs. And under these windows, we met up – Madla, Šišek, Matrna, Ambrož and I.

I can’t help but smile whenever I remember those days. The world wasn’t perfect back then, but it seemed like it to me.

Mom used to be a seamstress and would spend most of the day walking around Olmütz from one client to another: measuring, displaying, trying on, and listening patiently to absurd requests, criticisms, and praise. In the evening, she’d sit hunched over her work desk, sewing her tiny stitches while Ambrož and I watched her from under our striped featherbeds.

Ambrož was used to caring for me while she was gone, and I adored his company. Back then, I saw him as a fearless knight, big, strong, and mature. It seems so silly looking back on it! He was only four years older than me. However, when one is ten years old, they tend to see age completely differently. And his friends seemed just as big and mature as him.

Matěj, or rather Matrna, was the fourth of five children of the Czech sausage maker Trna. Both his older brothers grew up with nicknames – Jan was known as Jatrna and Pepa as Petrna. Although no one remembered how these silly nicknames came to be, Matěj followed suit and had been, therefore, since birth called Matrna, which he had become known as all over Hodolany. He was incredibly smart, not really because he’d study deep into the night. In his spare time, he’d tutor Andula, a worker at Bach's farm who dreamed of becoming a cook, even though she couldn’t even write her name. And he really did help her, just like he aided Grandpa Klimek with the inundation of official documents and court summons that flooded him when his nephew tried to evict him from his cottage. Everyone in Hodolany simply knew that one should go to the sausage maker's Matrna for expert advice and that the kind boy would never turn anyone away.

His star reputation was openly envied by Vašek Šimáček. Perhaps because no one at home paid any attention to him, and his name was often lost among all the others of his siblings and cousins. Madla was the one who gave him his nickname, Šišek, meaning pinecone, and although it was mostly out of pity, he was on cloud nine when she did it. He loved his nickname, though it was quite unflattering for him. He was tall, lean and hunchbacked, and his unruly blond hair really did look like an unripe pinecone from afar.

The boys put up with me only because of Ambrož. I served as their mascot and an excuse to hang out – they didn't go out to loiter around; they were babysitting me.

Finally, there was Madla, the heart and soul of our small group. She was the youngest daughter of the Malý family, and all three sisters reminded me of fairytale princesses. And just like in any other fairytale, the youngest turned out to be the most beautiful. Their family owned a weaving production that sold the fabrics Mom used, so whoever would court the girls might get a claim on the weaving kingdom. God knows they weren't short on suitors.

Madla was the glue holding us together; we were drawn to her like moths to a lamp, like ants to sugar cubes, and we enjoyed every moment with her.

However, strange sadness has hung over us since the end of the previous summer. We all knew that something fragile was about to break irreversibly. The boys had just finished Volksschule; Ambrož was going to a carpentry apprenticeship, Šišek was going to work in a malt house starting August, and Matrna had been admitted to a gymnasium in Olmütz after his class teacher vouched for him.

They all tried to act as if nothing was wrong and as if nothing was about to change, but it was just a façade.

I was sitting on the cobblestones, hot against my thighs, as a breeze smelling of chicories flew through the streets. The seething hot temperatures drained all the fun we could be having, keeping us sitting in the narrow shadow of the tavern. I wanted the carefree atmosphere to return. “Let’s play hide-and-seek!”

“You’re such a child, Žofie…” Šišek smirked.

"Well, why not?" Matrna stepped in. "It could be fun if we designate a big enough area. How about the area between the railway, Bystřička and the northern road?”

“We can count by the maple among the fields,” Ambrož added.

“Alright,” Madla agreed. “Žofie can count first since she came up with this.”

I made a regretful grimace. Why me? I wanted to hide! I loved the wild excitement playing on my nerves, the tension of watching out for the seeker, of crouching in my hiding spot and inconspicuously looking out a tiny hole, of not knowing, of hoping, of waiting. I used to be so brave.

“I’ll do it instead of Žofie,” Ambrož volunteered. My hero!

“Deal!”

I sprinted out, jumping over the tall grass and landing barefoot on the soft ground, my skirt flowing around my knees and my cheeks red from the heat. I hid in a plum bush, which had just ripened; a few of the yellow plums on the branches were hiding a sweet treat underneath its juicy sourness. And just as I was admiring my fantastic hiding spot, I heard the grass rustling behind me.

It was Matrna, climbing up the crooked apple tree in the ravine.

I had to laugh. My Ambrož would easily swing himself up into the short tree, but poor Matrna clawed his way up like a drowning kitten. The tree bark peeled under his feet as his curls bounced comically on his head.

His hair always reminded me of a walnut. We used to gather them at the beginning of autumn, just before they were ripe, throwing tree branches at them to get them to fall. Then, we would eagerly dig the bittersweet nuts out of their shells the same way gold-diggers mined their wealth out of rocks and mountains in the Far West.

And this unripe walnut, corrugated and crimpy, painted with wild honey and caramel golden lines, was the one that reminded me of Matrna’s hair.

He finally made his way up and noticed me. He put a finger to his lips, signalling for me to be quiet – just like I had already planned on doing.

It wasn't long before I heard someone else rustling through the grass. I also heard Ambrož's soft whistling. My heart danced in excitement as I pulled my head deeper between my shoulders.

“You won’t learn, and you won’t!” Ambrož called out joyfully. I freaked out a little before I realised he wasn’t talking to me. “You can’t be good at everything, Matrna!”

“Maybe I can’t climb, but perhaps I have a different, better plan.”

He wants to tell on me! He wants to reveal where I am because he knows I’m the slowest among them! What a stinkard.

“I can’t wait,” Ambrož smirked.

“I’ll outrun you!” At that moment, Matrna clumsily jumped down from the tree like a startled chicken and darted out into the fields, his steps stomping away.

“You wish!” Ambrož laughed as he ran after him.

He didn’t tell on me.

I was driven out of my perfect hiding spot in the evening by mosquitoes and my belly full of unripe plums. No one could find me in my nest of prickly branches, leaving me satisfied and as happy as a flea in a doghouse. A small, happy flea in a warm doghouse.

Would I have appreciated it more if I knew how quickly this carefree joy was to end? Would I have been more grateful if I knew how fast the summer would pass? Who knows…

What had stuck with me since this hot summer day was Matrna’s weasel smile. I didn’t understand why, but when girls at Stadtschule gossiped about their dream boys, about their deep eyes and broad shoulders, the image of red-faced Matrna climbing up the old apple tree in the ravine was the only one that came to my mind.

Chapter 3

Leopold Pfeiffer was an only child. It's hard to say whether he was one due to his parents' decision or a divine intervention. Either way, he was enjoying all the privileges that came with his social status, and he just couldn't understand that there could be anything wrong with it.

“She brings [1] biscuits and coffee to the study,” he ordered casually the moment I stepped into the entrance hall.

Silly me! I should have waited until the door closed behind his companions. If he hadn’t seen me, he surely wouldn’t have even thought of any biscuits or coffee; he wasn’t a very attentive host. However, since he saw me, he just couldn’t resist ordering me around. Simply because he could and wanted to show off.

As if I needed more work of my own.

I put the basket with firewood next to the stove in the kitchen and hastily poured a handful of roasted coffee beans into the grinder. Sitting down at the table, I spun the crunching machine.

I hurried so much that my hand cramped; it was about time to set the table for dinner, and I hadn’t even put out the cutlery. The cook, Hilda, could come in any moment, announcing that dinner was ready while I sat here and ground coffee for Leopold.

The Pfeiffers' house had two stories, each a separate apartment, although a single family lived there. In the lower apartment, there was a big lounge room used for all sorts of social gatherings and events, a big dining room, the kitchen with an attached room for Hilda, and the bedrooms of old Mrs Eugenie, the mother of Mr Pfeiffer, and of miss Margareth Pfeiffer’s, a spinster and a loyal daughter who cared for her mother maybe a bit too anxiously.

In the upper apartment, the lounge room was just slightly smaller, leading out to a balcony with a pompous balustrade. There was also the bedroom of Mr and Mrs Pfeiffer and one of Leopold, who had returned home just this spring from Vienna, where he was supposedly studying the law. He worked as a paralegal at his father’s office, although he wasn’t brimming with much enthusiasm for his job. The final rooms of the upper apartment were a study with a big library and a humble kitchen with a small room for a maid – me.

The Pfeiffer family was, of course, German; they took in a Czech maid only on the personal recommendation of the plasterer master Vyhnálek, who had recently finished their beautiful new house. I was extremely lucky to have Master Vyhnálek vouch for me since it was only thanks to him that I worked and lived just a few houses away from Ambrož. That in itself was a miracle, especially here in Beamtenviertel, the German suburbs of Olmütz.

The grinder went silent, and I heard loud laughter from the study.

They're already drinking, for sure. I'm doing all this work for nothing.

While the Turkish kettle filled with coffee was warming up on the stove, I rushed down the stairs to the dining room to set the table. However, I was delayed by old Mrs Eugenie, who had to, as always, sternly remind me of the importance of handling the cutlery, which she had bought who knows where, with care. When she was done, I had to leave the cutlery scattered across the table and hurry upstairs to save the coffee.

Foamed water was flowing out of the cezve, the smell of burnt coffee coming from the stove. As I rushed to the stove, I tripped over the basket next to it, and the firewood spilt on the floor. In all this chaos, I forgot to take a dishcloth, burning my hand with the long handle of the Turkish kettle. Simply one disaster after another!

My hands hurt as I hurriedly picked up the firewood.

I ran downstairs to finish setting up the table, and when I returned to the biscuits and coffee, I heard steps coming from the Pfeiffers’ room as Mrs Paulina stopped reading and started getting ready for dinner.

Before she managed to stick her head out of the room, I triumphantly carried the tray to the study. The biscuits were arranged in a decorative jar, the steaming coffee emitting a pleasant smell from the small jug, cream bouncing in an adorable pitcher, three cups with saucers and silver spoons jingling cheerfully with each step like a carillon in the astronomical clock at the plaza.

“Young master has visitors, ma’am,” I announced. “Shall I ask them if he’s going to attend the family dinner with his guests?”

Mrs Paulina frowned. She was still a beautiful lady, always perfectly groomed and decorous, used to sailing through her days with surprising aloofness. "How many of them are there?"

“Two guests, ma’am,” I raised the tray so she could count the cups. My burnt hand itched and hurt. I wanted to put it in cold water as fast as I could, but the relief seemed to still be far away.

Mrs Paulina shook her head. “They won’t have time anyway. I’m sure they’re discussing something important.”

I had to fight back my smile. Yes, by all means, they are discussing something very important. Certainly, they aren’t going to be smoking cigars and drinking absinthe until morning.

“Alright, ma’am,” I bowed and continued down the hall. I slipped into the study without the men paying me attention, and while I was setting the tray down, I quickly skimmed over the room and the two guests.

Of course, the absinthe fountain set was up on the tin table, liquid dripping from two silver taps down special spoons and sugar to glasses. Drop by drop, the glasses were filling up with olive green, cloudy drink smelling of liquorice.

Young master Leopold relaxed next to this sluggish show, his waistcoat casually unbuttoned, collar and cuffs unfastened. A black-haired young man, probably a student, sat by his side in a much less fancy yet perfectly tidy outfit. Then, there was the back of the third one. Once I noticed it, the small jug almost slipped out of my hand and spilt coffee on the rug.

This back belonged to a head that immediately reminded me of walnuts, but not the fresh, unripe and deliciously sweet kind that one throws branches at and leaves one's fingers yellow. No. They had ripened, grown darker and most likely also bitter; the sweet hints of caramel disappeared from the wild curls, yet I couldn’t shake the feeling that I knew them.

“She leaves it and goes,” Leopold chased me away before I could finish pouring the coffee. “She just goes away, Shofie[2].”

Those two probably wouldn't have looked at me if he hadn't done that. But now they turned around, perhaps to see me leave.

At that moment, I realised just how quickly time passes. It’s been eight years since then! Back then, all of the boys seemed so big and mature, but in reality, we were all only children. Is it possible that Ambrož hasn’t changed like this? And how much have I changed?

I'd have doubted it was truly him if Matrna hadn't widened his eyes in shock. He had a moustache, such an unbelievable moustache! And he was dressed like a German bourgeois! If Ambrož saw him, he’d go crazy!

“Žofie?” he blurted.

I couldn't bring myself to do more than a docile curtsy. To my surprise, I wasn't able to answer him in German, but I wasn't allowed to speak Czech at Pfeiffers’.

“Matheo, do you know each other?” Leopold smirked.

Matheo? Matheo?! It’s Matěj! Matěj Trna, a Czech boy from Hodolany!

“We come from the same village,” Matrna brushed him off in nonchalant German, turning back to the absinthe fountain and grabbing one of the poured cups.

I felt blood rushing into my cheeks along with weird, annoying anger. Aggrieved, I curled my lips as defiance gripped my forehead. Not even the burnt hand hurt as much as this brief meeting.

Why though?

I quickly bowed my way out of the study and ran to cool down my injury. We come from the same village… But what about it, Žofie?

It’s true.

He didn’t say anything bad, didn’t laugh at me or humiliate me more than necessary, and he said the truth.

We both come from Hodolany, after all.

[1] As mentioned in the prologue, in both Czech and German existed a special form of addressing those of lower social status, using the third person singular (onkání) or plural (onikání). It is used as a form of respect and polite distance. Under the influence of German, where it is commonly used even today, Czech also developed this form, which is considered archaic these days; the third person singular was used to address children and servants. As this form does not and has never existed in English, the form of the third person singular, which is used in the original text, has been used in this translation to retain the author's intention.

[2] Leopold cannot properly pronounce the sound ⟨ʒ⟩ as it is not common in German, thus saying ⟨ʃoʊfiː⟩ instead of ⟨ʒoʊfiː⟩

Chapter 4

“We’ll do it differently this time,” Madla said back then with a mischievous smile. That morning was annoyingly stuffy as we lay in a trench by the road among red poppies, lying like sacks from the mill.

"Today, I'll hide, and you all will look for me," she straightened her back to emphasise her words. Her golden hair tied around her head glowed like a golden crown on the head of a princess; instead of a ball gown, she was wearing a white shirt with loose sleeves, a gold cuff embroidered on her elbows, and a blueprint circle skirt that our mom finished that spring. “And the first one to find me can kiss me.”

Disgusted, I spitted out the rest of the chewed blade of grass; I was the only one not interested in the game.

The boys wiggled excitedly; tall Šišek looked around the field dreamily, Matrna brushed his hand through his hair, and Ambrož turned to me with a devastated look. Surely, he was regretting not leaving me at home that day.

“Deal?”

“Deal,” they stated firmly. No one waited for my agreement.

“Then count to a hundred,” Madla smiled so sweetly that my teeth hurt from this overly sweet game. The boys started counting and counted until she disappeared from their sight.

“Žofie, continue,” Šišek ordered. “At least for once, Ambrož won't have an advantage."

“…twenty-five, twenty-six, twenty-seven…”

“Why do you think so?” Ambrož asked. “I’ll tie Žofie to the tree and be on the lookout. When Madla comes to rescue her, she’ll be mine.”

I counted more quietly and listened attentively. They once did something similar, and I enjoyed it for only a short while.

“That wouldn’t be such a bad idea,” Šišek roared, “if you hadn’t told us about it. Now we’ll be on the lookout with you.”

“…and we’ll all win!” Matrna laughed. “Don’t slow down, Žofie!”

“Count yourself then,” I fired back.

He breathed in and continued. “Fifty-five, fifty-six, fifty-seven,” he murmured, picking up the pace. After a while, I didn’t understand him a word anymore and could only imagine what he was saying; I had to believe he could really count this fast. “A hundred!” he yelled suddenly after he finished his incoherent mumbling and jumped to his feet.

“Goodbye, Ambrož!” Šišek laughed and raised to his feet, too. They ran at breakneck speed, each in a different direction, and we ended up alone by the road.

“What do you think, Žofie,” Ambrož sighed after thinking for a bit, “where would you hide?”

“I’m supposed to be looking, not hiding.”

"Sure, but it's much easier when you know where to search. You're a girl, so tell me, where would you hide?"

I thought about it deeply and seriously. I remembered my perfect plum hiding spot, but then I thought of something even better.

“If she wants to kiss,” I said very maturely, “she’ll look for a pretty, peaceful spot. Like on the banks of Bystřička.”

Ambrož’s face lit up. He grabbed my hand and ran to the river.

We were looking for her for the rest of the day, getting stung by nettles and mosquitoes until a humid breeze coming from the river cooled our hot skin. Only when we returned to the fields did we realise that the sky was already dark, Olmütz crowned by a tiara of pink clouds.

“Mom is probably worried.”

I cursed Madla at that time. I was mad at her for turning my heroic knight into a stooge and for making the boys look like fools.

On the way home, we passed by the tavern U Mačáků. Šišek and Matrna were sitting under the window, drinking from a beer tankard.

“How did you enjoy your reward, Ambrož?” Šišek yelled, his voice brimming with bitter envy.

“I didn’t. We couldn’t find her.”

“Did you really not find her, Žofie?” Matrna asked to make sure. He knew very well, like everyone else, that I couldn’t lie.

"We found a beautiful tree frog, cheerfully green with glowing eyes!” I announced.

“Then Madla must have been changed into a frog at twilight[1],” Šišek smirked, "as a punishment for making fools out of us. She'd deserved it, wouldn't she? Did you at least kiss the frog, Ambrož?" he grimaced and imitated kissing with his tongue, as disgusting as I imagined kissing to be at that time.

“Go home. She’ll explain tomorrow…” And so we went.

I wasn’t afraid that night. It was the last night in a long time when I wasn’t trembling in fear.

~

By the next morning, everyone in the village had heard that Madla hadn’t come home that night. Before noon, everyone in Hodolany searched for the beautiful blonde.

The streets radiated summer heat as they passed on her name; the pond emitted warm humidity with the scent of frogs when men searched it with long poles, looking for a drowned body. The ears of rye were joyfully swinging in the fields while children crossed them, yelling into the distance, and trains sang rhythmically on the Emperor Ferdinand Northern Railway as the searchers helplessly watched the dike under it.

It was dark by the time we all met under the tavern window; no one sang there today. Everyone in Hodolany was up on their feet, looking for the lost girl. And the four of us stared at each other, unable to speak.

I felt like the whole world had suddenly become fractured, as if it fell on the ground and a crack appeared on it, like on the jug of milk I had recently clumsily dropped in the sink. It still held together; it could still be used, but each time I looked at it, I realised that something was wrong, something was out of place, and it could never, never return to like it was before. One could only wait until the crack grows, the jug breaks in half and milk pours out on the floor.

“I wish I had found her,” Ambrož sighed.

We all were probably thinking the same thing. And in a corner of my soul, I still held onto the possibility that Madla was all right. That she was still waiting somewhere, hidden until one of the boys comes for her. A princess in the tower who cannot come home without her prince.

I was thinking of her, regretting everything bad that came to my mind the previous day. I was apologising to her, calling for her… and then it happened.

Even in the evening summer heat, a chill ran down my spine. Everything trembled, an irrational fear gripping me. I got so startled that tears welled up in my eyes, and I desperately clutched onto my brother's arm.

“Don’t cry, dummy,” he comforted me, “we’ll find her. Tomorrow, we’ll all be sitting here together again.”

We could all think that until he said it. Once he uttered those words, we all knew it was a lie. A silly, frivolous lie that even a child wouldn’t believe.

I cried even harder.

We came home late at night, but I couldn’t fall asleep.

Mom's hands held me tightly, the well-known scent of her sweat wrapping around me. Ambrož's silhouette on the opposite bed shook with silent weeping at one point before even he fell asleep after a long, exhausting crying. And I remained staring into the darkness of the stiflingly hot night.

White smoke. The smell of oil. The screeching of tracks.

Railroad ties and wheels and a terrifying force. A deafening whirring, the shrieking of rivets and bearings. A rhythmical, pulsing noise, tapping, howling, knocking, and a scream!

It dragged me along. With an incredible speed. Incredibly painfully.

Drenched in sweat, I gaped, wide-eyed, my breath condensing into small, white clouds before my face, like on Christmas Eve when we would walk to the Midnight Prayer.

Every hair on my body stood on its end, my heart beating frantically, my mind attempting to escape from my head. I didn’t see anything. Nothing strange. Just our room in deep darkness, sleeping Ambrož and a hint of sunrise behind the grizzled curtains.

And yet, I could distinctly smell ash and tar in my nose, the metal scent of steel rails and an odd, unsettling smell reminiscent of rotten eggs.

Then I froze in fear. An impossible, unbelievable voice tickled me deep in my ear.

Let me in.

I pulled myself deeper into Mom's embrace, my breath trembling and my heart thumping as if it wanted to split any moment.

Let me in, Žofie…

It was her. It was Madla. I recognised her, yet I didn’t. She wasn’t human. She wasn’t here. She wasn’t now.

Let me in!

She urged and urged as tears rolled down my cheeks, bile rising in my shaking stomach, my chin quivering, hands jittering, and the only thing I was suddenly certain of was that I had nowhere to run.

Don’t hurt me! I begged desperately. Don’t hurt me!

If I had control over my own voice, I would’ve screamed and called for Ambrož. I would’ve woken him up so that he saved me from the monster coming for me.

However, I wasn’t able to speak. My sight was darkening; I wasn’t able to even breathe.

Let me in, nothing’s going to happen to you…

I surrendered.

[1] In the original, Šišek says “Klekánice must have changed Madla into a frog”. Klekánice is a Czech folklore spirit, a woman coming at twilight after church bells rang in the evening to announce the end of the day. Similarly to Polednitsa, she is believed to kidnap children that are not at home by that time. This story was used as a tool to make sure children were at home before the dark.