The Fisherman (20 page)

A small crowd has gathered near the cabin. Several of the men carry hefty sticks, improvised clubs, while a number of the women have repurposed items from their kitchens—pans, knives—as weapons. Rainer walks towards them. As he does, they close ranks, raise their makeshift arms. He halts a safe distance from them and addresses one of the men, a tall Swede named Gunnar. He says, “She is gone.”

Gunnar nods. “For good?”

“For good.”

The crowd releases its collective breath. Their weapons dip. Inclining his head to Jacob and the others, Rainer says, “These men and I are going to see to the one who is responsible for this. It would be wise to gather your families and stay inside, tonight. I would not answer the door, no matter who seems to be knocking on it.”

“What about this place?” Gunnar says, pointing to Helen and George’s cabin.

“This is not a fit place for anyone, anymore,” Rainer says. “If it is burned to the ground, it will not be a bad thing. In the morning, though,” he adds. “Tonight, leave it be.”

Shortly after dawn the next morning, Helen and George’s former home bursts into flames. The camp has its own fire brigade, which is usually the model of efficiency, but on this morning, they take their time showing up, and when at last they do arrive, they’re noticeably short of the proper equipment. In fact, all they bring are sledge hammers to knock down any timbers left standing, buckets of sand for the embers, and shovels to spread the sand. For the length of time it takes the blaze to devour the house, the firemen stand with the group of people who have come to watch the conflagration. The smoke that pours off the fire is heavy, almost viscous. Several observers are sickened by its smell, and one boy who stands too close to the plume will be deathly ill by sunset, his skin riddled with what look like toadstools pushing their way out of it. He’s the last fatality of this whole strange affair.

XVII

It’s doubtful any of the company who embarked from the house the night before hears about the boy’s death, or the fire that led to it, for another day or two. Around the time the flames have fully enveloped the house, Rainer, Italo, Jacob, and Andrea are stumbling into their homes, offering mumbled words of reassurance to their wives or bunkmates, and falling into their beds, from which they will not rise again for the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours. Their boots and clothes are sodden, streaked with reddish mud whose color and consistency no one recognized, as no one could identify the dark green leaves whose serrated edges had caught in the men’s clothing. To a one, they moaned and cried out in their sleep, but none of their wives or bunkmates could rouse them. Those wives and bunkmates made excuses for the four to their bosses, despite which, Andrea loses his job. Once they’ve climbed out of their slumbers, the men offer little in the way of explanation, answering most questions with at best a shake of the head. Rainer and Italo both reassure their wives that the worst is over, the danger past, and Clara and Regina set about spreading the word. Free to depart the camp whenever he wishes, Andrea wastes no time in so doing: he packs his bags and leaves right away. If he has a destination in mind, he doesn’t share it with anyone.

As for Angelo, the story that circulates is that he’s run off, taken a handful of axes and lit out for parts unknown. It’s an explanation that’s so patently false, even the folks who know next to nothing about what’s been going on suspect it. Which is not to say that any of them challenges it, makes an effort to ascertain the man’s actual fate. Now that the camp has returned to something like normal, there’s no one in a hurry to disturb that.

What those folks would say if they heard what really became of Angelo, I don’t know. Most likely, they wouldn’t believe it. They’d refuse to believe it. Maybe they’d treat it as an elaborate joke, the shaggiest of shaggy-dog stories. Maybe they’d grow angry, the way people do, sometimes, when they’re confronted with the marvelous, the fantastic, as if they’re upset at the universe for springing this on them.

XVIII

With the exception of Rainer, I don’t imagine any of the men who set out from the camp anticipates what lies ahead of them. Maybe Italo has an inkling of what they’re headed towards, but there’s nothing in Jacob’s experience to prepare him for the night’s imminent events, and I expect the same holds true for Angelo and Andrea. Nor, for the first part of their journey, is there any hint of anything out of the ordinary. It’s a warm night, the air around them beginning to fill with mosquitoes on the hunt for a meal, the air above flapping with bats doing the same with those mosquitoes. The moon’s on the wane, but gives enough light for them to follow the road to the Station, and the Dort house. To either side of them, the Esopus valley is a study in systematic destruction. While the five of them have been at work on the dam and weir, other parts of the project have been moving ahead, as well. Every piece of ground that’s to be flooded has to be cleared of anything that might contaminate the water. That means houses, barns, shops, schools, churches, all have to go, either taken down and relocated, if someone can afford it, or burned to ash and carted away. Same thing with vegetation, from the tallest tree to the smallest weed, it has to be cleared and, in the case of the trees, the roots have to be dug up, as well. Every last grave must be opened, and its occupant removed, repackaged in a new pine coffin, and reburied somewhere else. The only thing that’s allowed to stay is rock, the foundations of some of the houses. I don’t know if you’ve seen photos of the First World War, those battlefields in France and Belgium, but that’s what it reminds me of, that same, almost lunar terrain. If there’s a difference, it’s that the devastation in the war pictures is more chaotic: in the midst of a cratered field, there’ll be a single, untouched apple tree, its branches drooping with fruit. What happens in the valley is methodical, relentless.

It’s possible for the men to judge how far they’ve walked from the camp by the state of their surroundings, the stage of the clearing. By Jacob’s estimate, they’re about halfway on their journey when Italo says, “So.”

There’s no mistaking whom he’s addressing. Rainer says, “So.”

“When the dead woman said her master was the Fisherman, you didn’t ask her any more about him.”

Rainer doesn’t answer.

“Does this mean,” Italo says, “you know him?”

“No,” Rainer says.

“But you know of him,” Italo says.

“Yes,” Rainer says. “Not much, but yes.”

Italo does not ask the obvious question. Rainer goes on, “You have heard of Hamburg, yes? In the north of Germany. It is a port city, to which all manner of people come. It has been for a thousand years. In the later years of the sixteenth century, a man named Heinrich Khunrath lives there. He is a scholar—”

“He is the Fisherman, this professor?” Italo says.

“No,” Rainer says. “Khunrath is interested in alchemy, in magic. He wants to find out whether a man can practice magic and be a good Christian. He is looking for those places where magic and faith meet. In the process of his research, he assembles a remarkable library. It is full of rare books, many of them from distant lands—one of the advantages to residing in an active seaport. I do not think the titles of these books would mean much to you, but there is one,
The Secret Words of Osiris,
that is the prize of the collection. It is very old.

“One day, a man presents himself at Khunrath’s door. He is young-looking except for his eyes, which are old, older than any Khunrath has met. This young man with the old eyes says he has come to study with Khunrath. Khunrath says he is not interested in taking on any more students. He is too busy as it is. The young man insists. He has heard of Khunrath’s investigation of magic, and he has a great deal to share with him. Eventually, Khunrath agrees to let the young man study with him. Maybe he showed Khunrath a magic the scholar had not seen before. Or maybe Khunrath worried the young man might tell his neighbors the subject of his study. Hamburg prides herself on her sophistication, but there are limits to her tolerance. Always, there are boundaries, borders beyond which a man of learning is not to pass. If he does, the consequences can be…severe.”

“Yes, yes,” Italo says. “This boy with the funny eyes, he is the Fisherman. Does he have a name?”

“No,” Rainer says. “Khunrath does not write it down. In his letters, he refers to him as his young friend. Once, Khunrath calls him his young Hungarian.”

“Hungarian?” Italo says.

Rainer nods. “He was from Buda, which was then under the control of the Turks. He lived there with his wife and children. At the end of the fifteen-hundreds, the Hungarians fought a war with the Turks to drive them out of the country. This young man and his family were caught up in it. His wife was a Turk, you see, the daughter of a merchant who had followed the Turkish army to Buda. The young man thought that, if they did not draw any notice to themselves, he and his family would be left in peace. He was wrong. Khunrath did not know the exact circumstances, only that the man’s wife and children were put to the sword by Hungarian soldiers. Those soldiers stabbed the young man, too, but he survived. After he buried his family, he fled west, to Vienna. From Vienna, he went north, first to Prague, then to the Elbe, which he followed through Dresden, through Magdeburg, through Wittenberg, to Hamburg. At every city on his route, and some towns in between, he sought the men like Khunrath.”

“Magicians,” Italo says.

“Scholars,” Rainer says, “with similar interests.”

“Why is he called the Fisherman?” Jacob says.

“Yes, why?” Angelo and Andrea chime in.

Rainer scowls. He doesn’t like having his story rushed. He says, “Because the man wants to catch one of the Great Powers.”

“What Great Power?” Italo says. “Do you mean a devil?”

“No,” Rainer says. “This is something else. The old Egyptians spoke about it as a great serpent with a head of flint, a thing of darkness and chaos.” Seeing the looks the other men give him, Rainer sighs and says, “It is what Scripture calls Leviathan.”

“I thought that was a devil,” Andrea says.

“It is not a devil,” Rainer says. “You remember how God makes the earth? There is water over everything, and God brings forth the land from it, yes? Leviathan is swimming in that water.”

“What is it?” Andrea says. “Is it another god?” Angelo crosses himself.

“It’s closer to a god than it is to a devil,” Rainer says. “It’s like that first ocean, but it is not the ocean.”

“This is blasphemy,” Angelo says.

“A dead woman walking around,” Rainer says, “that is blasphemy. This is knowledge, very ancient knowledge.”

“Like what was in the book the scholar had,” Italo says. “What did you say the name was?
The Secret Words
—”

“Of Osiris,”
Rainer says. “Yes, that book talks about Leviathan; although it calls him a different name.”

“That is why the young man came to the scholar,” Andrea says.

“Khunrath,” Rainer says. “Yes, that is so. He took advantage of Khunrath’s hospitality for almost a year, and when he left, he took
The Secret Words of Osiris
with him.”

“He stole it,” Italo says.

“He won it,” Rainer says. “How is unclear. The night before he left Hamburg, the sky over the city was full of strange lights, and there was a noise like many men shouting.”

“So the young man fishes for Leviathan,” Andrea says, “and this book tells him how. Why? What does he expect if he catches it?” Almost at the same time, Italo says, “Where does he go to find such a beast? What ocean is deep enough?”

“Power,” Rainer says, nodding to Andrea. “If he could set his hook in Leviathan’s jaw, he could bend its strength to his purpose. He could have his wife and children back. Who knows what else he wants? What would any of us ask for?” Before anyone can answer, Rainer says to Italo, “The ocean that is Leviathan’s home lies
underneath
, below everything.”

“Under the ground?” Andrea says.

“In hell,” Angelo says.

“It is as it is underground,” Rainer says, “as if the world is as flat as men once believed it to be and it is floating on the dark ocean. In places, the earth is thinner, the distance to the ocean not so great.”

“This is one of those places?” Italo says, the tone of his voice indicating his opinion of such a claim.

“If the Fisherman is here,” Rainer says, “it must be.”

“How are we supposed to defeat such a man?” Angelo says.

“Ask the dead woman,” Italo says.

“The Fisherman is not without his strengths,” Rainer says, “but he is not a full
Schwarzkunstler
.”

“A what?” Italo says.

“Uno strégone,”
Rainer says.

“Ah,” Italo says.

“We should have a priest with us,” Angelo says.

“There is no time,” Rainer says. “Your devotion will have to do for us.”

XIX

Sooner after this than Jacob would have expected, the men reach the outskirts of the Station. Here, the wide-scale clearing has yet to begin. Trees run right up to the road. The handful of houses that comprise the village proper are still standing, empty but undisturbed. To look at them, you’d never know that, within a year, all of this will be gone, scraped away. Night has pitched its tent over them. Shadow lies heavy on the houses, their yards, fills up the spaces between the trees. As they pass out of the Station and off onto the driveway up to the Dort house, Jacob sees movement out of the corner of his eye. In amongst the trees to his right, what he thinks might be a deer, except that it’s too fast, and it doesn’t bound away, it kind of flicks away, with a fluidity unlike that of any forest creature Jacob knows. Thinking it’s probably nothing, a bird disturbed by their passing and made strange by his anxiety over the coming confrontation, he shakes his head and dismisses it.