The Soul Machines

By Alexandru Czimbor

This story opens on a burgeoning mining town in Transylvania during the fading years of the 19th century. Life goes on uneventfully, save for the occasional trouble caused by the greedy local baron. Three young men—a poor Romanian, a gypsy, and a rich Hungarian—are bound by a strong friendship that is frowned upon by the town elite. During a trip to the baron's forbidden lands, one of the men discovers a mysterious artifact that symbolizes humanity's evil nature, bringing out the worst in people, particularly those predisposed to wrongdoings. Far right extremists, socialists, and an order of Christian Orthodox monks vie to get their hands on it, which leads to a series of tragic events that disturb the town's peace. Murders, insanity, and suicide wreak havoc in the region. A wild chase and a fight for the possession of the artifact end up altering the mind of a boy who is bound to change the course of history. Meanwhile, a doomed love story begins between the young man who unearthed the artifact and a rich local girl who's already betrothed. The story takes place in the Austro-Hungarian Empire and spans an eclectic mix of fiction subgenres, including romance and mystery. Themes include the rise of extreme politics in Europe, feminism, and the conflict between religion and naturalism.
International Firebird Book Awards Winner.
Literary Titan Gold Award Winner.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jan 5, 2023
• ISBN: 9781667881263

Alexandru Czimbor

Alexandru Czimbor is an award-winning author who was born and raised in Transylvania, Romania during the oppressive communist regime of Nicolae Ceaușescu. He has lived in the United States since 2001 and spends his summers in Europe. Alexandru taught at a Romanian university, worked in the software industry, and has been an executive since 2011. He has a master's degree in computer science and studied at UTCN Cluj-Napoca and ETH Zürich. When he is not working or writing, Alexandru mentors his son, plays guitar, reads, and relentlessly listens to podcasts.

Book preview

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Contents

Chapter 1 – A Trouvaille?

Chapter 2 – Wisdom and Folly

Chapter 3 – Solid Education

Chapter 4 – Three Buddies

Chapter 5 – An Angelic Encounter

Chapter 6 – Confirmation

Chapter 7 – Trapped

Chapter 8 – A Birthday Coming

Chapter 9 – Plans for a Party

Chapter 10 – Unearthing

Chapter 11 – Stranger

Chapter 12 – Struggle

Chapter 13 – Dizziness

Chapter 14 – High Society

Chapter 15 – Thrill

Chapter 16 – Revelation

Chapter 17 – Curiouser

Chapter 18 – History

Chapter 19 – Sleazy

Chapter 20 – Ice Magic

Chapter 21 – Threats

Chapter 22 – Secret Meeting

Chapter 23 – Richness

Chapter 24 – Fatal

Chapter 25 – New Hideout

Chapter 26 – Pressure

Chapter 27 – Christmas

Chapter 28 – Change of Plans

Chapter 29 – Sin

Chapter 30 – Disappointment

Chapter 31 – Shattered Promises

Chapter 32 – A Different Funeral

Chapter 33 – Tainted Marriage

Chapter 34 – Raid

Chapter 35 – Fever

Chapter 36 – Gone

Chapter 37 – Touch of Freshness

Chapter 38 – Reward

Chapter 39 – Despair

Chapter 40 – Monk

Chapter 41 – Strike

Chapter 42 – Confession

Chapter 43 – Accusation

Chapter 44 – City

Chapter 45 – Gold

Chapter 46 – Craziness

Chapter 47 – Pleading

Chapter 48 – Alive

Chapter 49 – Resurrection

Chapter 50 – Love and Pain

Chapter 51 – Protégé

Chapter 52 – Honor

Chapter 53 – Disruption

Chapter 54 – Elegance or Equity

Chapter 55 – Zeal

Chapter 56 – Fight

Chapter 57 – Stormy Clouds

Epilogue

THE SOUL MACHINES

Copyright © 2022 Alexandru Czimbor. All rights reserved.

ISBN 978-1-66788-125-6 (Print)

ISBN 978-1-66788-126-3 (eBook)

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted

in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other

electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of

the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews

and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places,

events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination

or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons,

living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Never drift away from your better self in the name

of a cause you call noble. With every little step

that reinforces your beliefs, you slip deeper into the

abyss of certitude, where insidious thoughts disguised

as purposeful ideas end up corrupting your soul.

The answer you are looking for is not down there.

Lift your head up.

Doubt everything.

Remember your past…

At the end of the 19th century, Transylvania was part of the Kingdom of Hungary. Below is an approximate phonetic spelling of some of the Hungarian names mentioned in this book.

Chapter 1 – A Trouvaille?

Don’t panic! Tudor told himself, as the five patrol riders escaped the forest and steadily climbed the bare hill towards him. Half a dozen Komondor dogs surrounded them, whistle trained to go for the jugular of their prey.

I feel like a field rabbit, still in the face of danger, hoping that nobody will notice me. And this is how my life can easily go from bad to worse, the 17-year-old boy worried.

He signaled to his faithful companion Nero, a golden-fur mongrel resembling an overgrown German shepherd, to be quiet. Tudor knew he was in trouble. It was a bad idea to be caught in these parts of the woods any time of the year, but during chestnut harvest time, in the mid-fall season, it meant an unwelcome trip to the cold cellars of the bishop’s castle, a few months in the township dungeon, or even death, if one was foolish enough to fight these guards. With his little knives, Tudor could shave the skin of a chestnut ten yards away. But knives were no match for the heavy swords of the ex-Honvéd, let alone for their long rifles.

I’m not getting locked up for this, he thought, gnashing his teeth in rage, his eyes sparkling and moist. But standing still won’t work if they come just a little closer.

Not sure whether he had already been spotted, he ducked slowly, glancing at a fissure not far away, covered in briery bushes. It looked old and undisturbed, witness to many chestnut harvest seasons. He came across it just minutes ago, his eye passing over it, without giving it a second thought until this very moment.

Only Providence put me so close to it. Next time I won’t be so lucky.

His knuckles white on his knives’ sheaths, he crawled towards it and threw in his large, nearly full bag. He then slid inside, his leather tunic touching, ever so slightly, the thorny claws, which rustled in protest like a desperate last attempt to keep him out.

Nero, hide, boy, hide! he whispered to his dog who looked at him confused for a short while, tilted his head a bit, a sure sign that he understood his command, and then took off towards a rock a little farther up.

A gentle wind blew from the hill bottom towards Tudor, complementing his luck, otherwise the Komondors would have picked up his scent. If not for the dogs, he might have passed unnoticed even to someone close by, unless this someone was looking straight into the bush to notice his two luminous eyes peeking from within. Barely breathing, he looked at the outside world through the spiked window. The Rooster Comb Mountain Peak, some ten miles away, as the crow flies, was rising from the top of a few ancient fir trees. The interplay between the deep blue of the clear sky, the raw green of the trees and the white-covered mountains was truly a sight to behold.

Not exactly the time to admire nature’s beauty, he scolded himself, his ears pricking up. He shifted a bit, as if unsure of what to do next, then stared intently at the small unwelcome pack coming his way. He could already hear the muffled sound of hooves over dirt and short grass. A sudden shift in the direction of the dogs, followed by a tongue-against-bottom-lip whistle, signaled that something was going on. Tudor panicked. He focused on the remote scene until tears got into his eyes. A touch of brown far to the right, near the tree line, moved fast and disappeared into the forest. The guards changed direction and unleashed the dogs with a sharp command. They went into a frenzy after whatever they were following—a deer, most likely—and got lost shortly after, between the trees.

As if guessing that the danger was about to pass, Nero ran back towards the fissure.

Nero, my dear, it seems that we’ll get to eat roasted chestnut pie after all, Tudor whispered, relieved and amazed at his dog’s instincts. Or at least I will, seeing as you don’t value it.

Ten minutes later, with all the commotion gone, he was about to come out from his hiding spot when his hand touched a little round rock. The rock felt more like a smooth piece of metal than a stone, irradiating neither heat nor cold. A sort of neutral, skin-temperature something protruding from dirt. It looked almost completely buried, save for the round top about the size of a cherry. His eyes used by now with the semi-darkness inside, he inspected the fissure more closely. It couldn’t have been taller than one medium-size person, about as wide as his arms spread, and no longer than four yards, as it was set in an oblique position relative to the tree line that he saw outside. It looked just about as natural as any small hole caused by a landslide after heavy rain. The ground had settled over many years. He crawled further with his legs, while with his hands he vigorously dug the dirt around the queer rock. He forgot entirely about the danger he was in just minutes ago. His companion whined softly, as if wondering what possessed his master. In a short time, Tudor uncovered the knob-looking thing and made up his mind to examine it further. After a powerful push downwards, he felt the ground giving up under him. He succumbed with no time to react, dirt in his mouth and eyes. He looked around, coughing and spitting. His action had enlarged the initial fissure to what was now more like a little underground cave, so small that perhaps only four or five adults could fit in. A paltry amount of light was coming from outside. The first thing he saw was Nero yelping above him and moving around agitated. He reckoned he was just three yards below the surface.

Nero! Stay there, boy, stay there. Down!

Tudor looked around for a root or rock that he could use to climb back up. His eyes fell on a strange grayish object with a short rod spearing up, ending with a sphere—what he took for a temperature-less rock a few minutes before. From what he could see, the object looked brand new, with no signs of rust or decay. Its shape reminded him of a pear cut in half from top to bottom, with the bulgy end sticking out of the dirt. It seemed made of metal, but an unfamiliar one. Its yellow lines converging towards the center and distorted in the low light, made it look like a face, grinning at the relentless, yet fruitless efforts of the entropy to break it apart. Or grinning at him, satisfied that someone discovered it, at last. Tudor thought it reminded him of a small metal boat, about two-thirds of it buried. Its size couldn’t have been more than eight or nine feet. He knew little of boats, having never left the hilly region of his hometown, but he had seen pictures in the books that his best friend Roli lent to him. This thing had a flat top and didn’t have anything resembling a deck. Despite its surface looking unscratched, it gave the feeling of being old, really old.

What would a boat do underground, in the crack of a hill, miles away from any big river?! wondered Tudor aloud.

Lost in thought, he got startled by a noise. Nero was losing patience.

"By the looks of it, this thing won’t leave this place anytime soon, he muttered. I can always come back and check it out."

He hurried, pulling himself together and looking for a way up. If Nero were to bark, he might attract the guards. Half crawling, half pushing himself against the wall, Tudor grabbed a root and reached the rim of the hole he created. With a last effort, he pulled himself up.

Who’s a good boy now? he said, patting the dog. We seem to have stumbled upon a little treasure, the two of us, but don’t you go now and tell all your stray buddies about it, we don’t want anyone else close to it.

Getting out in the open, he glanced around. There was no sign of the guards. He carefully covered with grass the most visible part of the cave entry. It took a good while, but finally he was satisfied that he made it look natural and insignificant enough. After all, what were the chances that someone else crazy enough to come into this area to steal chestnuts would need to hide there.

I think we can conclude that we were either incredibly lucky or these woods are ridden with dirt-sailing boats, Tudor snickered, taking a good last look at his work.

Nero answered in his typical way, waving his tail approvingly.

Still trembling from excitement, Tudor started ascending and descending the many hills that he had to cross to get home. At the risk of delaying his return by a couple of hours, he carefully went in the direction opposite to where he had seen the guards go.

Forcing himself to be on the lookout, he glided from tree to tree, ready to hide at any suspicious sound. His mind was swirling, thinking about his discovery. He decided to call it a boat, for lack of a better name. How old was it? Judging by the fact that the fissure in the hill looked ancient, it couldn’t have been from recent times. Also, why did anybody drag it across several hills? He was dying to tell his best buddies about it.

Short of a few curious squirrels, he didn’t encounter anybody for a couple of hours. The kingdom of chestnut trees covered a vast area—he wasn’t even sure how many hills, but there must have been at least thirty. The owner, bishop Henczi, or the Great Fir Tree bishop, as people called him, besides being a well-known Roman Catholic figure, was a powerful baron with connections all over the Kingdom of Hungary. Given his volatile disposition and conceited nature, not to mention his small personal army, it was certainly a terrible idea to cross him.

The chestnuts were a prized possession and an excellent source of revenue for the local region. Normally, one needed to go to lands far in the south to get them. To have them grow in the forest of Nagybánya made little sense. Educated people in the town said that chestnuts grew here because of a warm western wind caressing the top of the forest, although nobody knew for sure. They sold hundreds of barrels of chestnuts for good money all around the Kingdom.

Too bad that most of the money made the already rich bishop even richer, Tudor thought. Yes, local folks get hired, under strict surveillance, to pick up the burs, open them and collect the delicious fruits, but they are paid miserably. All while their hands and feet get horribly red and swollen, sometimes infected, from the bur needles. But hey, all in the name of natural order. A few are blue-blooded, the rest of us must make do with red.

With these thoughts occupying his mind, Tudor crossed into the hill of the Virgin Rock. He easily got to the top, stepping over a thick carpet of brown and green fir needles. The Rock was overseeing the first large flat opening in the horizon. The forest behind it looked like the wrinkled green-yellow-reddish fur of an enormous animal.

Letting his breath out, he started the descent towards his home. Suddenly Nero’s ears went straight up, and he started moving around fast. Surely enough, sounds of hooves coming up the hill from the right sent a shiver down Tudor’s spine.

Damn it, the carpet of pins must have dampened the sounds of their trotting, cursed Tudor between his teeth.

With an expert flick of the wrist, he threw his sack up into the thickest tree. Like a sling, with its weight pulling on both sides, the sack rotated twice around a thick branch and hung camouflaged in the canopy.

Let’s hope these guys don’t look up to the Heavens too often, Tudor mumbled. He carefully turned his back to the fir trees and looked to the ground, absorbed, pretending to search for something.

In no time, four guards surrounded him. They might have been part of the same deer-hunting patrol that had been close to him a few hours ago. This time they had no dogs. Nero growled but remained still.

What’ya doing, little worm? said the closest one through his teeth in bad Romanian. His moustache seemed longer than his arms, twisting menacingly at the extremities. Lost something? His peers snickered.

The guard took his horse in a deliberately slow circle around the tree near Tudor, who fought the temptation to take a furtive look above. He couldn’t help but notice the long scar on the man’s face, likely a testament of a brawl in a pub, which made him look ugly and dangerous. He pulled himself together and answered in his neutral Hungarian accent.

I beg your pardon, kind sir. Just looking for mushrooms.

So, you want to steal mushrooms and sell them in the market, said the guard in Hungarian, letting out a mean smirk.

Tudor tried hard to fight his knee-jerk reaction to counterpunch.

This is Liget, which is free park land. You can’t stop me from being here, he replied in a trembling voice.

Well, what do you know? The pup shows his teeth. You dare speak back, you scum? We’ve put in chains the likes of you plenty, but worry not, there is enough metal left for you. Where do you live?

Downhill, half an hour from here. Pause, then in a heavy voice. Sir.

No matter, we’ll have plenty of time to sort this out at the castle. You are coming with us.

Leave the boy alone, Horváth, an older guard bellowed, approaching them. He had the sweet accent of a Pészt native, but his tone was sharp like a razor. Judging from the way he kept himself straight in the saddle and from his demeanor, he was clearly the superior in the group.

Yes, captain. We were just playing, the guard called Horváth whined.

You’d better focus on protecting his lordship’s property and not picking on helpless teenagers.

Horváth flashed up an angry look towards Tudor. He certainly didn’t enjoy being scolded in front of his peers.

You, boy. Don’t spend more time in this area, the forest is big, you can search for mushrooms elsewhere. Go home now, the captain said.

With a kick of his heels, he steered his horse to a quick turn and galloped away.

Pray that we don’t meet again, said Horváth through his teeth.

Tudor breathed a sigh of relief. He never liked the guards, although found a few old ones reasonable and, in a different life, he might have grown accustomed to them. Many nobles in Transylvania employed the service of such people. Although they liked to call themselves Honvéd and brag about their adventures, most of them were never military. They were hired thugs that got in for their love of bullying, for which they happened to be paid a decent amount of money. The few actual retired Honvéds, rarely officers, were always in charge of these savages, to temper their enthusiasm. It was a good balance of toughness needed to keep people out of the nobles’ affairs while maintaining some level of military-like discipline.

Tudor pretended to start his descent until all guards were out of sight, then he quickly turned and nimbly climbed up the tree. He threw down his sack, jumped down himself and finally resumed his trip in a hurry.

The evening sun was throwing javelins of light through the thick canopy, whose foliage was turning. The path he chose was marked by round, big cobblestones, looking like bald gray heads popping out from the ground. When he was small, Tudor always thought that they were the actual heads of an army of invaders that were buried alive, standing straight, so only their heads’ tops were visible, worn by the passage of time. Whenever he would step on them, he half expected some to rise and protest that his pointy feet poked at them. These roads were used by lumberjacks, coming up and down the hill with large carts pulled by one or two horses. Tudor reckoned that this road was safer, as he could hear from half a mile the funny clippety-clop sound of horses, should any of these accursed guards come his way again. It was getting dark anyway, so he needed little shelter from the trees.

Finally, he came to an opening where he could see his house with thin smoke coming out of the chimney. The image of the strange box buried in a forgotten earth fissure flashed through his mind before the dull concerns of his monotonous life replaced it. He would have gladly left that finding alone, better yet, he would have buried it deeper, if he knew how profoundly it would change his life and forever alter the history of humankind.

Chapter 2 – Wisdom and Folly

Tudor’s house was a typical Transylvanian abode at the end of the 19 th century. It wasn’t larger than four hundred square feet. A small wooden door cut its symmetrical shape. A single vertical grille, crossed by two smaller horizontal ones, split the two tiny rectangular windows that seemed positioned too far from the sides. The walls were about ten inches thick, made of clay and straws, that made up for their lack of strength with an efficient insulation. Where the walls met, adornments of manually carved wood gave the interior a charm of sorts, which couldn’t compensate for the overall impression of poverty. The simple hip roof was nearly twice as high as the walls, made from densely packed straws that were two feet thick, which could keep out every single drop of rain in a storm, and repel with equal ease the torrid July heat and the freezing cold of January. The walls were resting on a three feet tall rectangular base made of round stones, surrounding the entire house, wider than the house itself by another three feet. They were arranged irregularly, and their height sufficed to keep heavy snow at bay most of the time. The roof extended outside enough to cover the base, which gave the house a small all-around covered porch. A little wooden staircase with rails provided access to the door. There were only two rooms inside. One was the kitchen with beds around the stove, a small table, and a closet acting as a pantry. Then there was the second room that was nearly identical to the kitchen in size, had similar beds, along with a tiny one-door closet and a small sideboard.

Tudor lived there with his mother, Maria, and two sisters, Johanna, 12 years old, and Mila, 8, sharing the two small rooms as well as possible given the circumstances. They didn’t really feel bad about it, since this is how they lived all their lives.

The land surrounded by fences was about one acre and a half, one part of it covered by an orchard with prune, apple, and pear trees, along with an old sweet cherry tree and several smaller sour cherry trees. Red and blackcurrant bushes were planted in a few places across the orchard, which were the source of some of Tudor’s favorite jams. A sturdy fence on the southern side supported grape vines. A huge walnut tree provided shade to a large swath of the land, including the stable, where a tall and strong, otherwise gentle horse ruled, accustomed to pulling heavy logs from the forest. A spotted cow, which was well past her prime, but still produced milk, and a dozen chickens, rounded off the domestic treasure.

This little piece of land faced southwest, surrounded by forest to the north and east, which earned it the name Sunny Hill, although, given the amount of rain in the region, this title was somewhat over the top. Coming from the town, this was the first high ground from a long series of ridges that wrinkled for tens of miles the Carpathian Forest. This little corner of paradise might have been called Bellevue, for the flat land of Nagybánya opened ahead down to the Számos river, a tributary of Tisza that flows into the Danube.

Tudor approached the house, still carrying the heavy chestnut sack. The staircase cracked under his steps. The smell of prune butter surrounded him like a blanket. It was the time of the year when his mom would make gallons and gallons of it, to be sold at the market. Inside, an enormous cauldron was bubbling softly on the stove. Tudor got in. He couldn’t hear the usual clamor, so the girls were most likely playing somewhere outside. His mom turned around, happy to see him, but her expression changed into an admonishing smile right away at the sight of the bag. Her face white, she stammered her disapproval.

Tudor, how… how many times. Don’t. I told you. Nothing’s worth this risk. You’ll be the death of me.

From the right corner, behind Tudor, a man cleared his throat. Only then did Tudor notice the old monk sitting in a tiny chair. He dropped the heavy bag on the floor and greeted respectfully.

Praised be Jesus, son, the old man answered.

Father Marcu was a distant relative of Tudor’s mother, who had taken his vows some forty years back, after a tragedy in his family that nobody spoke of, and about which Tudor never found out enough to crystalize a story. He only knew that somebody had died and that there had been a lot of suffering. Father Marcu lived far up in the mountains, in a monastery near Oláhlápos, in the Szolnok-Doboka komitat. On the rare occasions when he came down to civilization, he brought honey and clothes that the monks were sewing in exchange for basic food and tools they could not make. The monastery was Christian Orthodox, something that wasn’t approved of by the authorities of the region.

After the union with Rome of a big part of the Orthodox church in 1698, to form the Greek Catholic denomination, many Romanians in Transylvania converted to Catholicism, a fact that suited western Catholics, but created an irreparable rift with those who wanted to keep their traditional faith. Orthodox monasteries were often just secluded houses, secretly funded and encouraged by a large population, but usually frowned upon by people of other denominations.

Oh, Father, excuse my reaction, said the woman, flustered. It breaks my heart to see that he risks his freedom for a few pounds of chestnuts that come and go in a few days.

I don’t understand, jumped in Tudor throwing his arms up in frustration. Why should only some eat the fruits that grow freely in the forest? There are plenty of chestnut trees, it makes no sense for only one man to benefit from them.

Just minutes before, he had planned on joking while fending off any arguments from his mother, who he knew would be very upset after his adventure. But the monk’s presence at this very moment was unexpected, and he was getting hot headed.

Religious matters were a source of great frustration for Tudor, whose more rebellious nature stood in the way of accepting answers by proclamations rather than reasoning. He tried not to bother too much with this, and learned to keep his mouth shut, not to upset others. Still, Tudor kind of liked the monk. He sensed that the old man’s heart was good, though hidden in layers of conventions, and shells built from suffering. He often had a piece of wisdom to share. Tudor cringed at the exaggerated respect that his mom showed to him—why would anyone have to kiss somebody’s hand or hem was beyond him—but he accepted the monk’s presence and, to some extent, valued it.

The world of human greed knows no limits, Father Marcu whispered. Our Lord has allowed it to test our hearts and our faith. But don’t be fooled! He does not look favorably to stealing, because, son, this is what you have done. And you are worrying your mother too much.

Tudor thought it was best not to argue this point. He sat down morosely at the table.

Best hide that sack in the pantry, Maria hurried him. We’ll leave it there for a while before I cook something with the damn things… I beg your pardon, Father, she said disturbed, while Tudor followed her command.

Tell me, my young friend, what else is new in your life, the monk graciously changed the subject.

Tudor was about to mention his discovery, but then he realized how ridiculous it would sound.

Not much, just work and school. And occasional wandering about in these beautiful woods.

Indeed, the forest is marvelous and full of secrets waiting to be discovered.

Tudor flinched, startled at the thought that the old man read his thoughts. But the monk didn’t seem to notice. Many times in our history these trees offered protection for our folks when bad people came to take over our lands. And I fear we’ll need a shelter many times to come, as it is our Lord’s will.

Maria made the sign of cross, her eyes humbled.

But why, Father? Why do people do bad things to one another? Tudor voiced his anger despite his mother’s admonishing look.

Why do we need to suffer from hunger, while others throw away half of the food they have? Why do some kill, and others get killed? Why does God allow this?

Well, these questions have plagued people from the beginning of time. Life on Earth is but a trial, a measure of our worthiness. The Almighty gives each of us a test and then decides who crosses into the Kingdom of Heaven and who doesn’t.

Tudor heard this half explanation enough times to get annoyed by it.

But…

Tudor, enough, his mom intervened.

Maria, let the boy speak his mind. His inquiries are valid, he needs to form his own opinion, said the monk in a mild tone. God knows that, in these last few years, we’ve been told to shut up too many times. Our children aren’t allowed to speak, think or pray in Romanian. We’re slowly losing our ways.

Tudor thought the monk was right that in those times children spoke Romanian less, although he certainly didn’t feel that strongly about it. He had been speaking Hungarian all his life, at school, with all his friends, even with Sami, who was a gypsy. In fact, he realized, he only spoke Romanian with his sisters and mother, her few relatives, like Father Marcu, and Father Andrei from the Greek Catholic church they attended.

I don’t mean to be disrespectful. I’m just growing upset that I am getting half answers to these basic questions.

His mom threw her eyes up in exasperation. By her judgment, such talk was foolish, and she was surprised the monk tolerated it.

The ways of the Lord are mysterious and beyond our comprehension. You shouldn’t feel bad for not understanding them. The Lord doesn’t give one more than one can carry, whispered the monk.

So, when God took my father to His side, he gave me a load that, supposedly, I could handle, Tudor couldn’t resist challenging the old man further. But what about my father’s life? Why am I so important that God should sacrifice him? He wasn’t an evil man. I doubt he was a bigger sinner than some of the God-loving folks around, like his Holiness, the Fir Tree Bishop, he continued mockingly.

Now his mom’s frown deepened, and her eyes got empty. She didn’t complain anymore about Tudor’s impertinent words.

It seems unfair to us because we’re mere mortals. We judge everything from our own perspective. We’re nothing but specks of dust in the grand scheme of things. You should embrace faith and have trust in Our Lord’s majestic plan.

How can I blindly trust this plan? I can accept that there are things too complicated for our understanding, but I can’t just trust God without some kind of proof.

You ask for proof, just like Thomas the Unbeliever. Be careful what you wish for.

This is precisely what I was afraid you would answer, replied Tudor in an exasperated voice. Every single time I have a reasonable discussion about faith, I get to a dead-end with pre-baked answers, such as, ‘You are like Thomas the Unbeliever’, ‘God will repay each person according to what they have done’, ‘Lord moves in mysterious ways’.

Tudor, enough is enough, his mother jumped from her chair. To hide her embarrassment, she ran outside, calling the girls to come home. Tudor stayed silent for a while, contemplating the chasm between him and the monk.

Johanna and Mila stormed into the house, giggling and chasing one another, only to come to an abrupt stop in front of their guest, who smiled at them gently. They greeted him halfheartedly and stood still in front of him. They both had their hair tight at the back and wore simple, collared dresses that were a little baggy. Their dirty hands and faces could not take away the charm of their luminous eyes and unsophisticated beauty.

Oh my, I expected you two angels would be bigger, since I haven’t been here for a while, but I didn’t realize you were also getting so beautiful, the monk remarked, then he turned to their mother and added, Maria, you have been blessed. May God keep your children healthy!

The girls blushed and ran into the other room.

Girls, you need to wash and get ready for bed, Maria yelled after them. Don’t forget your prayers.

Turning his attention back to Tudor, the monk continued.

Whatever you decide to do and believe, remember that you are the one forging your path in life. God will judge you based on your actions and decisions, whether you are a devout believer or a heretic. A bit of advice, though. Be careful speaking your mind like that, especially among clergy. You’ll find very few people willing to entertain such thoughts and you might get into serious trouble. Our own sacred Orthodoxy doesn’t condone doubts and inquiries like these. Neither do Catholics or Protestants, for that matter.

With a sigh betraying his age, the old man stood up.

I must bid you both goodbye now. I have a long way to go.

Maria jumped up, worried.

Surely, Father, you can honor our humble house with your presence until morning. It’s true we don’t have a lot of room, but we’ll make a bed for you. I am begging you to stay. You don’t need to travel at night.

Quite the contrary, my dear. I prefer traveling at night, far from the eyes and inquiries of guards and villains. I fear no wild beast, for I found out in my life that the most dangerous creature of them all is the one walking on two legs.

Then let me at least give you something for the monastery, Maria said, rushing to gather two large clay pots, one with cream and the other with prune butter.

This is how the deal between the two worked. It was their silent understanding that the monk would leave honey and trinkets made by the brothers, like wooden spoons or clay pots, in exchange for delicious food or extra garden tools the family might have around.

After passing over the doorsill, the monk turned around to face Tudor.

Son, before I take my leave, promise your mother that you won’t go again on a wild chestnut crusade.

Tudor smiled. As much as he wanted to score one with that bastard bishop, and as much as he enjoyed chestnuts, his heart sank seeing his mother worry to death.

Fine. Let it be that I die a horrible death from infection with their prickly burs, if I go stealing chestnuts again. Tudor said solemnly, crossing his heart.

Tudor, you’ve truly outdone yourself tonight, his mother uttered, hiding her smirk. Farewell, Father, and please, please be careful out there. The monastery is so far from here.

Rest assured, I’ll be there no later than the early rooster’s crow, the monk said, loading his heavy backpack.

Tudor stood in front of the door, watching the old man depart until he disappeared between the trees.

Thomas’ doubts be damned, I’ll always search for answers to my questions, he muttered as he waved goodbye. I’ll forge my own path and challenge ‘God’s majestic’ plan for me!

Chapter 3 – Solid Education

Tudor woke up shivering under the thin summer blanket. The mornings were already getting chilly, although it was just October. He thought it might be the time to bring out the fluffy, heavy, feather-and-down quilt, normally reserved for the winter. Johanna and Mila were still sleeping, hugging each other. Their serene, angelic faces gave out the dreams that were possibly running into their pretty heads, betrayed only by their mouths open less elegantly.

Girls, it’s time to leave the princes, castles and pink dresses up in the land of dreams and descend into the mortal world of school and torture, Tudor announced, getting up from his bed stretching. He wasn’t exactly eager to get ready either, but his summer break had ended two weeks before. He enjoyed school, despite its quirky teacher, religious flavor, dogmas and terribly limited subjects. He had figured long ago that any knowledge was better than none.

With big yawns and complaints, the girls got out of bed and went to wash outside, shivering. Their mother prepared a frugal breakfast, just prune butter on rye bread and fresh cold milk.

Tudor, when you come back, you must go to the market with the prune butter. I prepared the first batch for you.

A large clay pot with a lid was already full of the gooey, nearly black paste. Prune butter had the unbeatable advantages of being made without a drop of sugar, therefore it was cheap, and lasted the entire winter. Its major drawbacks were that it took forever to boil the prunes in the cauldron over a low flame that required stirring continuously, and somebody had to sacrifice their free time to stay for days in the market trying to sell it.

But Tudor preferred it that way, instead of doing more work in the field. Not that he was lazy, and occasionally he managed to convince himself that he enjoyed trimming the trees, picking fruits, digging the ground and all that, it was just that, deep down, he believed he was destined to do so much more. The one thing that gave him true pleasure was tinkering with the tools or thinking of novel ways to improve his work. It was astonishing to him that people had been using, by and large, the same gardening tools and devices for hundreds of years! He often tried to put together small gadgets, most of which ending up useless, much to his mother’s dismay. He couldn’t come up with anything yet that would ease the stirring of the prune butter without risking burning the house down and he thought it smart not to push this experiment too far.

Gobbling down the delicious food, Tudor’s mind raced back to a certain hill where a treasure was waiting for him. He started daydreaming about the people who left whatever that thing was up there, how powerful they must have been, what long lost secrets they knew and why they abandoned it there.

I hope you’ll wake up before you arrive at school, his mother interrupted his musing, otherwise Mr. Câmpeanu will smack your head around until you see your spine.

Sorry, mom, I was just thinking about something that I saw yesterday in the forest, while I was hid…, hiking, he hesitated. I got into a hidden little cave and inside there was this weird thing.

Well, what was it?

I don’t know. It was made of metal. It’s hard to describe. It had the shape of a pear cut in half. I couldn’t see any obvious way to use it. It was painted with funny yellow lines. I could swear it was laughing at me. And it had this peculiar short rod, ending with a round metal, or rock, that emanated neither heat, nor cold.

Oh, you’re killing me with your nonsense, his mother sighed. Were you by any chance in the middle of the bishop’s land when you discovered your wonder?

Actually, I was far to the other side, near the end of his territory, Tudor answered, and then immediately regretted his slip of tongue. His mom’s eyes flashed with anger and worry again.

You went that far! You have got to stop doing this, or something bad will eventually happen to you! Look, I understand you are becoming a man and that you are a mature and wise young boy. But given your inclination for trespassing, I must forbid you to roam in the bishop’s forest anymore. Please, Tudor, don’t make me suffer and don’t make me punish you.

But I must go back and look again at that thing! the boy protested.

No. And that’s final!

Seeing the pain in his eyes, her heart melted, and she added, I might let you check on your precious discovery after the chestnut season is over. And after the snow. If you behave through the winter.

Tudor thought he’d go crazy to have to wait until spring. What if someone else stumbled upon it? But then he calmed himself down. Trees surrounded the barren hill, so there was no reason for anyone to venture on it, or hide in the small crack, which was barely visible anyway. Besides, in a month, a two-feet thick snow blanket would cover that area. He would be ok traveling to the place, save for encountering a few hungry wolves, but how could he hope to dig in the snow and spend enough time in the freezing weather understanding the purpose of that contraption! Perhaps spring was a suitable compromise.

Still somewhat morose, he bid his mom goodbye and took off for school, keeping an eye on the girls who were skipping and singing. They had to go a short while on one of the cobblestone paths through the forest, which ended abruptly, just like the hill, leading into land that was perfectly flat for tens of miles around. Down there, the marvelous local park, Liget, welcomed them with its usual morning bustle. Several groups of children coming from houses around the park were finding their way towards the school building, playing, talking, and fighting all along.

Few people lived up the hills, and they were either rich enough to go to the Catholic school, or servants, like Tudor’s family. The bulk of the actual town, burgeoning from the new mining industry that was developing at the end of the 19th century, stood in front of all these hills, lying flat on all sides of the Zazar river. The promise of a better life attracted many families, who came in this region to either dig the ore or process it. The town was spreading its arms through all nearby valleys, reaching further into the forest like a growing octopus wiggling its tentacles to grab its prey. On account of the poverty that ruled this place not so long ago, Nagybánya enjoyed a growth rate that rivaled or surpassed most other European cities, although, in absolute numbers, the economy was still lagging far behind.

Tudor was wondering if he’d prefer that his town would grow to a large city or remain a hidden gem, when he spotted Roli walking alone down a busy alley that was circling a beautiful pond with stone walls and crystal-clear water. Since he could already see the school building at the edge of the park, he told the girls to go right ahead and get inside with no fooling around. He then turned and rushed over the arched bridge that was dividing the pond, without stopping on the small island where a few beautiful girls were giggling at him. When he reached his best friend, he startled him.

Hey man, those girls must have frightened you badly if you are running like that, he said in a playful voice.

Roli smiled from ear to ear. Yeah, I was afraid you’d come down and I couldn’t let them see me in your filthy company.

The two of them had known each other ever since they were very young. Roli’s family was one hundred percent Hungarian and had moved here from the Pészt region. They usually looked down at the local families, even those of Hungarian descent, let alone the mixes or the Romanians. They were certainly not approving of their heir spending any minute around Tudor, but the boys couldn’t care less. They shared a lot of common interests and talked incessantly about them. Because of his family’s status, Roli was going to a private Catholic school. Despite their youth, he and Tudor often engaged in intellectual sparring, as Roli was a fervent Christian, while Tudor was too rational for his own good. Tudor was fluent in Hungarian and was constantly asking his friend for books which Roli secretly supplied. The two dreamt about adventures, money, and glory.

Did you see Sami? I need to talk to you two about something, Tudor got serious.

I was just talking to him a minute ago. See him down there? Roli pointed towards a clump of trees some one hundred feet away. Hey, Sami! Come over here for a minute, will you?

A gypsy rogue, about their age—although no one could tell for sure—turned to face them. He was much more muscular, a testament of his rough life. When he saw them, his face lit up, and he rushed to them, whistling a lively tune.

Hey, he greeted them, turning to Tudor. I haven’t seen ya in a while.

You lucky son of a bitch, wandering around with no worries again, eh?

Sami beamed and didn’t reply, although a shadow went briefly over his face. Being a gypsy, he didn’t have to go to school. Or, rather, he wasn’t expected to. His father would have given him a serious beating had he heard such nonsense. His two friends knew all too well that he was secretly longing to learn things and be part of the whole school deal. In fact, they agreed to teach him how to read and write, and did so from time to time, much to his delight.

Guys, I want to talk to you about something important. Meet me after school at this pond. said Tudor.

Sure, but what is it? asked Sami, ever curious.

I’ve got no time now. I’m going to be late for class. Nothing much. I discovered a little treasure, and I thought about sharing it with you two. Not sure you deserve it, though, Tudor teased them.

You finally struck gold, didn’t you? Roli laughed, leaving towards his school. Gone are the troubles with the orchard, the dull field work, the freezing winters… Oh, and the dangerous chase for chestnuts! he whispered with a wink.

Tudor looked around, pretending to be scared.

Sami was squirming, all too curious now.

I know ya blokes are joking, but I’m in, whatever it is.

I’ll see you both later. Try not to get a heart attack meanwhile, Tudor laughed and ran to school.

He rushed into the building just when the old school custodian was ringing the enormous brass bell announcing the start of the day. Passing by him like a bullet, Tudor merely nodded and saluted in a guttural voice, cursing himself for being late. He stormed into the third classroom, counting from the entrance. This was the so-called secondary class, selected for kids over 14, of whom there were much fewer compared to the other classes. It was already Tudor’s ninth year of school, so he was one of the three oldest pupils. Many of his peers dropped school after four or five years, in order to earn a living, especially if they were orphans. That he was still in school was only thanks to his passion for learning and his mother’s laudable efforts, born out of a sense of pride that was unusual for someone in her position.

His teacher, Mr. Câmpeanu, sitting at his desk, threw him an icy look as he was finding the way. The classroom was split in two, fifteen boys on the right, ten girls on the left. It took a while for the bustle to calm down as people were settling in their places.

Tudor knew better than to get on his teacher’s unpleasant side. If you asked him, he would have presented his teacher as calm, bitter, often caustic, sometimes lost in thought. But the man went berserk when someone pushed his buttons. And given his stature, some 6 foot 3, pushing his buttons was a bad idea. Tudor witnessed two incidents when the teacher grabbed kids by their necks and bashed their foreheads on the solid wooden desk to the point where the boys in the class were ready to jump on him. The saddest part of it was that the poor souls had done only minor transgressions. One of them scared a girl with a classic frog-in-the-bag prank. The other dared to question the purpose of a war, a topic that Mr. Câmpeanu would not take lightly. In Tudor’s opinion, they should have been punished far less severely.

All lessons were taught in Hungarian, which was by law the language of instruction in Transylvania, at end of the 19th century.

Today we’ll resume our lesson about the Hungarian Revolution of 1848…

Tudor thought that there were thousands of other things he was interested in. Instead, he was forced to hear a distorted version of history from a veteran turned teacher. He sighed inaudibly. And it had to be about the same event that happened half a century ago, he thought. What about the Babylonians? The Greeks? The Roman Empire? Or the British Empire? Or pretty much any other Empire?

Listening to his teacher’s monotonous voice, Tudor’s mind switched to an automatic mode, paying vague attention to what was being said, and thinking about Roli’s history book describing glorious times from the past. Yet another day when there wasn’t anything new to learn in school.

Mr. Câmpeanu fought in the 1849 Battle of Temesvár, alongside the Hungarian revolutionaries, against the oppressing Habsburg regime. Although a simple soldier, who must have been in his 20s, those times have been the pinnacle of his life. He liked to brag about the courage and determination of the Hungarian army, even though they eventually lost to the Austrians. Mr. Câmpeanu’s participation and devotion in that war earned him, after the 1867 formation of the Kingdom of Hungary, the position of a schoolteacher, which he enjoyed tremendously. He was careful to pepper his stories about his valiant deeds with a good amount of fawning over Emperor Franz Josef, who was in those days ruling over both Austria and Hungary. Tudor questioned the sincerity of Mr. Câmpeanu’s respect, since it was this emperor, 16 years old at that time, who crushed the Hungarian revolutionaries with the help of Russian soldiers. But Mr. Câmpeanu, aware of his Romanian heritage and ever pragmatic, was determined to stay friends with the rulers of the

Reviews for The Soul Machines

[Mathieu Pilot · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Amazing book mixing history, romance and a touch of magic.

[Andreea Toma · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Un magnifique livre, mêlant romantisme, science fiction et historie qui m’a fait voyager dans le temps et dans ce bel endroit, la Transylvanie.