Vodník Read online

  Could that have been jet lag? Sleep deprivation? Didn’t some tumors bring on visions? But where would I have come up with that scene? And that girl—Lesana? No. Severe sleep deprivation. My hands were shaking.

  “Tomas!” It was my dad from outside the door.

  “Coming!” I’d ignore the vision. If it happened again—after a full night’s rest—then I’d worry about it. But for now, with all the changes that had happened in my life, who knew what stress and no sleep could do to my body. Maybe dreaming you were a fat eight-year-old was a typical response. Either way, I forced myself to think about getting ready, and tried to put the water-induced whatever behind me.

  Five minutes later, we left the apartment. The daylight assaulted my eyes, and I had to sneeze twice before it was better. We had gone out the back door, which led to a courtyard with trees and another playground. People were out and about, shouting in Slovak and staring at me as much as possible. Enough that I started to wonder if I had a flashing neon “American” sign above my head.

  “Ready?” Dad asked as Mom came out the door. “Or should I say, Si hotový?”

  “Ha ha. Where’s the car?” In the sunlight, it was easier to believe that the vision had been some sort of fluke. An overactive imagination, maybe. Nothing to do with the things I’d seen when I was five.

  “We’re not driving,” Mom said. “The castle’s in the city center. No cars allowed, and the closest parking would still be a long walk. Your father was serious. We’re going to have to start talking Slovak. Angličtina nám tu nepomôže. Ideme.”

  I understood that last word: let’s go. I mulled over the other sentence as I followed my parents toward the center of town. Usually Mom slowed down when she talked to me in Slovak, but that had been said at a normal rate, which meant that most of it sounded like one long word. With some effort, I deciphered it: English won’t help us much here. Maybe not, but I’d pick up the Slovak in no time. All I needed was a bit of brushing up.

  We passed row upon row of gray apartment buildings, each one with similar battered doors and nosy people who all paused what they were doing to gawk at us. I actually saw one mother grab her child and keep him from coming near us. Mom had warned me things were different here. Through all those years of Communism, there had been Slovaks and Roma—no other races, and here in western Slovakia there weren’t even many Roma. So I guess it made sense we stood out, but it still made me feel like I was on the sex offender list. I was used to being stared at for my scarred arm, but I could usually turn that off by wearing long sleeves.

  You can’t exactly “turn off” your skin color.

  Maybe I was being sensitive—looking for racism when there really wasn’t any. Maybe people were just checking out the new neighbors. Nothing strange about that.

  I studied the city as we walked. It was odd to see all these signs in a language I had (sort of) spoken all my life, but had never really seen as important.

  Lekáren, Slovenská Sporitelna, Kvetinárstvo. And it wasn’t just the words that were strange. The logos, the fonts—the signs themselves were weird. Foreign. Duh.

  I kept glancing up, each time expecting to see the castle, but it was never there. When it did appear, it was like it had sprung from the earth. One minute the buildings had nothing above them but sky, and the next the castle was looming over us like it had never been hiding at all. It had a main tower with several outbuildings and a series of walls that hunched up around the central keep like an army protecting its king. Some parts were crumbling, true, but that only added to the sense of age. It was easy to picture an army camped around it, laying siege for months at a time. It could have come right out of Lord of the Rings. I mean, it was no Helm’s Deep, but it was an easy Helm’s Shallow. That castle alone made me regret never having pressed Mom to find out more about Slovakia. Why didn’t I remember it?

  From far away, the main tower gave the biggest impression, rearing up over the rest of the castle like a dragon surveying its hoard. I could make out specks of birds flying around it, as well as dots of color: people walking around an observation platform. The top of the tower, instead of being open to the air, was covered in wood, like it was wearing a square hat. But it was an old square hat, so it managed to fit in with the rest of the structure.

  My dad caught my shirt, stopping me before I stepped into traffic. I barely noticed—the castle was too interesting.

  “Are we going there now?” I asked, sounding like a kid waiting to go to the toy store. I couldn’t help it.

  “Yes,” he puffed. “Just keep walking.”

  We walked under an overpass and out into a park, and the billowing trees blocked further view. The park led to the base of the castle’s hill, and we descended into another tunnel that crossed beneath the street. The graffiti-laced walls stunk of cigarettes and urine, and a group of guys a bit older than me were hanging out toward the far side, smoking and laughing. They quieted when they saw us coming, elbowing each other and nodding in our direction with some half smiles. Mom and Dad didn’t seem to pay them any attention, and the guys didn’t say anything to us specifically, but when I glanced back at them after we had passed, they were still watching us. Me. The one in the middle reminded me of Draco Malfoy. Thin, blond, and snide. He flipped me off before I turned and caught back up with my parents.

  I was happy to be out in the fresh air again, although when we walked up the other side, we were too close to see the castle anymore.

  The roads on this side were narrow and made of cobblestone, which wasn’t the most comfortable surface to walk on. It felt like I was moving over a road made of solid bubble wrap.

  The street went up steeply to the right, and then switchbacked to the left. Now I could see the castle again. Closer, it was clear that some of its walls were crumbling. There was a giant steel construction canopying the road, protecting it from a chunk of wall that had slipped down the hill.

  When I’d first gone to Disney World, I’d been pissed that the castle was just a glorified gift shop and tunnel. But this was no Cinderella’s castle, and it had the ruins and safety hazards to prove it. Not to mention the steep hill. No wonder no one would attack a well-built castle on high ground. I was winded just walking there.

  The road ran straight through a stone arch in the outermost wall, and a man sat in a building by the gate, idly reading a magazine. No one was in line to buy tickets. Inside the entrance gate (a huge affair of aged metal and rivets) another man shouted to us and waved. Mom smiled and waved back, then walked up to talk to him. After a bit of chatter, Mom came back and we continued up the hill, which only got steeper.

  “Okay,” Dad said. “You’ve got to close your eyes from here on.”

  “What?”

  “I promised your uncle he’d be able to give you the castle tour himself, but he can’t meet us just yet. So close your eyes, okay?”

  I sighed, but my leftover guilt from yesterday made me cave. I closed my eyes, leaving them open a crack so I could at least not stumble into anything.

  Dad guided me by pushes after I refused to hold his hand. (What was I, two?) We kept walking, and the path leveled out. I waited to hear the crowds. A castle this awesome had to be packed to the rafters with tourists, but all I heard was our footsteps and Mom and Dad chatting.

  We went up some more and then stopped, and I heard what sounded like a wooden beam being taken from a door, followed by the sound of the door opening.

  “Watch your step,” Dad said.

  I tripped over a big step but managed to not fall down. Then I was allowed to open my eyes.

  We were standing outside the castle walls, the city spread out before us in a patchwork of buildings, with a river cutting through it. It looked so different from home. All the roofs were red tile, and the buildings snaked together, the alleys forming mazes below.

  This was Europe.

  Dad put his hand on my shoulder and said slowly, “Prídeme tam neskoro. Pod’.” We’ll be late. Come.

  I took
a last glance at the city, then nodded. There would be plenty of time to explore later. The path we were on hugged the outside of the castle wall, leading to a ruined staircase that was a lawsuit waiting to happen, but it fit in with the surroundings. Halfway down it started to smell horsey, and at the bottom lay a clearing about as big as half a football field. Three quarters of it was filled with a fenced area full of loose dirt by the outer castle wall. It was lined with lances, shields, and banners, all brightly painted. The area had a long fence running through the center, turning it into a giant loop. The rest of the clearing had rough bleachers with all of fifteen or twenty people sitting there, looking almost apologetic for being so few in number.

  “It’s a joust,” Mom said as we climbed the empty bleachers. “Your uncle is part of this group. It’s his job. Well, in addition to being one of the night watchmen here at the castle.”

  It wouldn’t be his job much longer if no one came to the performances. Maybe their group sucked—they’d come out in tinfoil armor and papier-maché helmets. I settled into my seat. It wasn’t the most comfortable thing in the world—wooden planks and a metal frame that radiated the summer heat. Way more rickety than the solid American quality I was used to.

  Just as the show was starting, an olive-skinned girl came to sit next to me, smiling. Long dark hair, gorgeous brown eyes. Model-level hotness. I stared for a moment, managed to eke out a smile in return, and tucked my right hand against my side. Maybe there was some Roma camaraderie thing at work, but if she caught sight of my arm, any friendly feeling would disappear faster than I could sneeze. The girl grinned even wider and waved. Her hair reached halfway to her waist, and her features were a mix of Disney’s version of Esmeralda in Hunchback and Angelina Jolie. Just younger. I nodded and scooted a little farther away from her, then acted like I was more interested in the joust.

  I was such a wuss.

  A man came out dressed in a red robe and cloak with white fur on the edges, and I breathed a sigh of relief. No tinfoil. The outfit was completed with a white cap, leather belt, and leather bag on his side. He strode onto the field and started talking in Slovak. “Vítame vás na turnaji . . .”

  My parents had sat in front of me, but Mom craned her neck around to translate for me. “He’s welcoming us, and he’s excited for the battle that’s about to begin. A”— she paused as she listened to the man some more—“challenge has been declared between the Slovak knights and some visiting French knights. They’ve decided to settle it today by the typical contests.”

  Mom and I were both startled by a voice to my left. “I can translate for you, if you’d like.”

  I looked over to see the girl. She had sidled closer while I was focused on listening to my mom.

  Mom beamed. “Oh! Hello! Thank you so much. That would be wonderful.”

  I couldn’t believe it. My mom was willing to just shove me off on a stranger? A beautiful stranger my age who had one of the most enticing accents I’d ever heard, and skin color just a shade darker than mine? With perfect cheekbones, a sculpted nose, full lips—I tried to stutter out a thank you, but she stopped me by placing a hand on my shoulder. She was touching me!

  “Don’t worry about it. Let’s watch. Oh—and you can call me Katka.”

  Why had I ever worried about going to Slovakia? She leaned in close to me and began to translate, her voice low and right in my ear. For the first while, I couldn’t pay any attention to what was going on in front of me. She had a mellow voice that was perfect: not too squeaky and not too low. And every now and then, her breath would tickle my ear. I had to fight the urge to peek at her, forcing myself instead to concentrate as much as I could on what was happening on the field. I kept my right arm so close to my body it might have been glued there.

  Six riders galloped onto the field, each of them decked out in a different style and color of armor, and each of them going full blast, their horses tracing the edge of the ring and kicking up clods of dirt. Mom turned around to me and pointed at the knight dressed in blue and yellow with white griffons. “That’s L’uboš.”

  I gawked at him, my mind on overload—there were too many cool things at once. He was everything a kid could wish a father to be, but I’d settle to claim him as an uncle. His horse was a monster, decked out in an outfit that covered its head and body down to its hooves, all blue and yellow, just like my uncle’s armor. Most of the knights’ armor was covered in cloth, but from the glimpses I got and the pieces that weren’t concealed, I could tell this was the real deal. The steel was solid and well used. My uncle had curly brown hair that fell to his shoulders and a beard that would have made King Arthur proud. For being half Roma, he was pretty darn light-skinned, especially compared to my mom and me.

  The next hour and a half flew by. We were so close to the action I had to wipe dirt from my face twice. Nothing about this was fake. When my uncle and the knight in red started to duel with axes and shields, I thought for sure someone was going to get maimed. They were hacking with all their strength, splinters and hunks of wood flying from their shields with each blow. But they were both good enough that neither penetrated the other’s defenses until my uncle rushed the red knight and knocked him to the ground. His axe was at the fallen man’s throat in a second, and the red knight yielded. Katka cheered just as loudly as I did, but I wished there were a throng of people to roar with us.

  It hadn’t taken me long to forget about being nervous in front of her. She had a laugh that was infectious and an easy manner that melted my fears. Before I knew it, I was pointing with my right hand at something on the field. I froze, my eyes riveted by the sight of my scarred arm, its white and red and yellow mottled pattern held out in the open for anyone to see, practically right in front of her face.

  It didn’t faze Katka for a second. I could tell she had seen it—I saw her eyes pause for a moment at my arm. But instead of the usual expression of disgust or “I want to look away but I just can’t,” she ignored it, pointing at something else and continuing the conversation.

  I felt like I had died and been reborn as Brad Pitt. Moving to Slovakia was worth every bit of worry and mental anguish. Maybe it was a bit premature, but I couldn’t help thinking that for the first time in my life, I had a shot at a girlfriend.

  The tournament ended to enthusiastic applause from the bleachers, but there was no way fewer than thirty people could make the cheers sound properly loud. All the knights saluted each other and their au­dience and galloped back to their tents.

  My parents smiled at Katka and me. I felt a goofy grin spread all over my face. “Did you have fun?” Dad asked.

  I nodded. “It was a blast.”

  My mom patted Katka on the arm. “Thank you so much for helping translate.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” she said.

  Meanwhile, my uncle had emerged from the tents and was headed toward us. He had some of his armor off, and he was sweating more than a fat kid in gym class. He took my mom in a bear hug. She groaned, and I thought I heard a few ribs crack. Then he slapped my dad on the shoulder, shook his hand, and beamed at Katka and me.

  He barked a laugh. “Tomáš! Vyrástol si.” You’ve grown. “A vidím, že si sa už skamarátil so sesternicou.”

  He was speaking too fast.

  Katka leaned toward me and translated. “He’s happy we’ve become friends so quickly.”

  I frowned. “Why?” I asked at last.

  She laughed. “Because I’m your cousin, silly. Katarina.”

  Appendix E.3.4. If you believe you’ve had a run-in with a Rasputin, take a moment to analyze the creature. Do you see the telltale scarring? If not, you’re most likely mistaken. If the scar’s not grisly or noteworthy, it’s not a likely candidate. If you have been unfortunate enough to encounter a real Rasputin, please contact your supervisor immediately.

  My smile went from genuine to forced in a heartbeat, though I tried to not let it show, no matter how confused I was. My cousin was this little girl in a picture in ou
r living room. Or she was before the picture burned up. Sure I’d known the picture was old—but in my mind, she was seven years old. Whoops. I gave Katka a big hug (something I never would have done if she’d been the stranger I thought she was) and let Uncle L’uboš grab my right hand and inspect my arm.

  “Nevyzerá to zle. Môžeš tým pohnút?” He studied me with such a serious expression that I worried he knew I’d been checking out his daughter.

  Katka translated, “Can you move it?”

  “Oh,” I said. “Yeah.” I took my hand out of his and swung it around, moving my elbow and fingers and feeling like the tin man showing he didn’t need oil. It had taken years of physical therapy to get it so mobile, and all the doctors raved about what a miracle case I was. Usually with a burn that bad, the skin tightens, meaning your movement is hampered. Even so, the skin grafts had never worked to smooth out the scar, I had trouble feeling with it, it didn’t sweat, and it stung in the cold.

  My uncle nodded. Vedel som, že sa ti to zahojí. Maš dobrý koren.”

  Everyone laughed, so I assumed that was something good. I tried to laugh with them, but all that came out was an uncertain grin. The adults started chitchatting in Slovak, and I got lost. There seemed to be a debate going on, with my parents protesting and L’uboš sounding reassuring, but it was hard to tell emotions in a different language.

  Finally L’uboš clapped his hands. “Come,” he said in English. English! “I go change, but you meet my friends.”

  We trailed after him to the medieval tents. The jousting group members were milling around, hosing down horses, putting equipment away and changing into normal clothes. A woman walked past me in her underwear, and it took quite a bit of focus not to stare. I was in Europe. They prob­­ably went out for dinner in their underwear.

  While L’uboš disappeared into a tent of his own to change, Katka introduced me to his friends, a series of bearded men with names I promptly forgot. I was too impressed with their swords. One of them—Adam?—offered me his, and I took it carefully. It was heavier than I expected, but between the weight of the blade and the pommel, it b­alanced itself out.