Ghost in the Spires: The Alex and Jackie Adventures, #4

By Tom Weston

"I see a vast city, whose glory will touch the stars!"

 

Alex is a girl on a mission. If only she knew what that mission was. Jackie has found a rather old and unusual guidebook. Their time in Prague, full of beautiful spires and dubious statues, is bound to be interesting. But who are the mysterious self-appointed guardians of the city - The Watchers? And who watches the Watchers? Could it be the legendary Golem or is it something more sinister? Is it all destined to end in tears before bedtime? Get the box of tissues ready, because this is Ghost in the Spires: being an old wives' tale, and this is an Alex and Jackie Adventure.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tom Weston
• Release date: Apr 11, 2024
• ISBN: 9780985036140

Tom Weston

Tom Weston, author of Fission, The Alex and Jackie Adventure and Tales from the Green Dragon Tavern.

Book preview

Title Page

Also by

TOM WESTON

The Alex and Jackie Adventures:

First Night: being a Ghost Story

The Elf of Luxembourg: being a Love Story

Feathered: being a Fairy Tale

And

Fission: based on a true story

Copyright © 2024 Tom Weston

All Rights Reserved. Except for brief extracts cited in critical review, no part of this book may be reproduced in any form whatsoever without written permission. For information visit: www.tom-weston.com.

This book is a work of fiction. The character and dialogue of historical figures are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Cover designed by Cassandra Mansour. Image: of The Golem by BeataGFX, used under license from Shutterstock.com. Image from The Golem: How He Came into the World, directed by Paul Wegener, Universum Film (UFA), 1920. Map of Prague by Matthäus Seutter, Atlas Novus, c. 1745, courtesy of EncorePrintSociety. Town view of Praha by Hartmann Schedel, courtesy of vintage-maps.com. All other images used under license from Shutterstock.com,

Library of Congress Control Number: 2023921449

ISBN 978-0-9850361-4-0

Printed in the United States of America

Contents

Copyright

The Child in the Garden

Chapter 1 - Midnight in the City of Spires

Chapter 2 - The Charles Bridge

Chapter 3 - The Clock Strikes the Hour

Chapter 4 - A Call to Arms

Chapter 5 - The Plan of the Golem

Chapter 6 - Quis Custodiet Ipsos Custodes?

Chapter 7 - The Mission of the Golem

Chapter 8 - As Told by Uncle Justin

Chapter 9 - You Want Alchemy

Chapter 10 - The Maidens' War

Chapter 11 - An Old Wife's Tale

Chapter 12 - The Woman in the Garden

Chapter 13 - Who is it that you want me to be?

The Gift of the Magi

To Marta and Alfons

Map of Prague

by Matthäus Seutter, Atlas Novus, c 1745.

Author’s Note

To the best of my ability, and in the keeping of the Alex and Jackie Adventures, I have tried to present a light-hearted story of my protagonists’ visit to Prague, and their subsequent encounters with the history and mythology of that great city. The eagle-eyed reader may however notice the inclusion of a much darker, terribly sad, true story which in no way, shape or form should ever be spoken of lightly. When I came across this story, with its connection to my place of birth, I felt compelled to include it here. My aim in doing so was to try to give one of world’s most heart-breaking stories a fictional happy ending that could never be achieved in real life.

To the best of my recollection, the Three-Graces Manor is fictional, as is the dinner show described in this book, so you probably won’t find it on any map or in any guidebook, except the one used by Jackie. The inspiration for Three-Graces Manor, however, came from the very real and very charming Folklore Garden, and if a dinner show dedicated to traditional Czech music, costume and dance is something which may pique your interest, I suggest you check them out. And to the best of my knowledge, the wonderful folk at Folklore Garden have never encouraged their guests to fight amongst themselves; I made that bit up.

On these pages, you may come across Jackie’s feeble attempts to perform alchemy. Please do not try this at home. Jackie does not know what she is doing, and she should not be used as a role model.

Thank you for reading.

Tom Weston

The Child in the Garden

Extract from Šárka, symphonic poem #3 of Má vlast, by Bedřich Smetana, 1875.

T

he warmth of summer spread around her as soft as a blanket, under which one could play hide and seek with an uncertain, chilly future. Soft and secure. The birds flew down from a cloudless sky, hopped from branch to branch in the trees and serenaded her with lazy compositions on the joys of innocence not yet lost. The butterflies whispered to her of their exquisite surprise at their brief, carefree, moment of existence. Bumblebees bumbled and went about their business. She chased a rabbit, not that she wanted to cause it any harm. Had she caught it, she would have hugged it and given it a carrot, blissfully unaware of the rabbit’s pounding heart, and not understanding its lack of understanding of her kindness. From the cottage came the reassuring smell of baked rosemary bread, fresh from the oven. From the garden came the scent of the roses. Everything worked in unison to overload her senses and the effect amazed her.

The child played in the garden. And one could be forgiven for imagining that in the mind of this eight-year-old girl, this best day of her short life foretold many more 'best’ days to come. She did not have to attend school today or help her mother around the house with tedious chores. For though she only had eight years of experience from which to draw, she presumed she possessed the cunning of a fox, the intelligence of a wise man, and the skills of an alchemist from the old stories. She considered it the best day because she had employed those talents, coupled with the disarming charm that comes naturally to a young, precocious girl, to convince her mother that she felt too unwell to attend school or anything similarly arduous. The pretense of a slight cough and the strategic placement of a hot water bottle on her forehead to simulate a raised temperature were trivial and basic. The small amount of soap in her nostrils to induce sneezes added to the effect brilliantly, she thought. Genius!

She felt it important that she played truant today, not because she hated school, but because the sun shone in all its glory and all the birds, butterflies, bees, and rabbits agreed with her. She could not spend such a perfect day indoors learning her times-tables or alphabet. Her only regret, one teeniest, mildest, trivial-est, pang of regret, was that her less artful friends missed sharing this day with her. Yes, summer vacation fast approached and then she would play with them from dawn to dusk. Soon there would be an infinite amount of time to play with her friends. But she could not reach that point until she vanquished the adversary immediately before her, the warmest and softest June day ever to exist! She saw it as her duty to challenge it, joust with it and conquer it!

Soft, but not secure.

The cottage did not speak of wealth or power. It battled winter storms, harsh summer sun and year-round, ever-encroaching, nature which had to be constantly repelled, but its occupants found it neat and cozy, and it served its purpose of providing a loving home, more than enough to make the girl happy. With no other life with which to compare, how could she not be? The cottage stood in the garden, and except for the relatively small patch in which the girl played, the garden produced a practical crop of vegetables. The garden also stood outside the main perimeter of the village, removed from most of its neighbors by a couple of miles of unsigned, unassuming path of dirt and gravel.

A stone wall enclosed the garden, built many years before by forgotten hands, and now in need of repair. A wooden gate, equally in need of repair, breached the wall. The girl’s father had often promised to fix it, once he found some free time, which never could be found; for a miner earned his wage by the tonne and luxuries such as free time had to be calculated and paid for with back-breaking labor. The gate had a rusted lock and at some time past had lost one of its hinges, so it drooped at an angle and remained perennially open. At this time of day, at this time of year, a large linden tree cast its shadow over the gate and much of the garden path; the tree being older than the child, gate, wall, and cottage combined.

The rabbit hopped under the shadow of the tree. As her eyes followed its path, the child felt another shadow loom over her. She thought that perhaps a sudden cloud had cast it to spoil her perfect day.  She turned her head for confirmation. The sky contained no clouds, but in a metaphorical sense, she had guessed correctly.

A man stood between her and the sunlight; a large, impressive hulk of a man, built like a stone statue and dressed in the uniform of a soldier, an officer. After all the stories the child had heard about soldiers, she thought that men in uniform should appear gallant, stylish, and handsome - but this man did not fit the bill. He appeared a little grubby, he had an untrimmed beard which defied the military code, his uniform contained many wrinkles, as if he slept in it and did not possess the means to iron it. His boots, muddy and dull, appeared as if he had not cleaned them since the first day that he wore them.

Captain Hans Ayres knelt on one knee before the child and smiled, but the smile seemed noncommittal, neither friendly and reassuring, nor calculated and condescending, just a display of good manners. He removed the cap from his head.

Hello, said the captain.

Hello, replied the child.

Do you have a name?

My name is Šárka.

Šárka? That is a good name. I should have known. I am honored. The famous warrior, Šárka the Brave. She did great things in battle, over a thousand years ago. You don’t look that old?

I am eight.

Then you must not be her. But I am honored to meet you just the same. Did you know that you carry a hero’s name?

Šárka shook her head.

No? The captain seemed to ponder this negative response. But you will do great things one day, I believe, not in battle perhaps, but heroic just the same, and in a time of peace and friendship, I hope. My name is Hans.

A woman appeared at the door to the cottage, Šárka’s mother. She saw the captain’s uniform and froze as if turned to stone by Medusa, her sudden paralysis brought on by confusion and fear. For he wore the uniform of the enemy. Her thoughts quickly refocused on the need to protect her daughter and she started forward again.

Without averting his eyes from Šárka, Captain Ayres held up a hand. Not now, he said, voice raised.

Šárka’s mother halted again, still confused, but the captain directed his command toward another, not her. Behind him, an army lieutenant who had approached the captain to speak, stopped and backed away sheepishly.

Behind the lieutenant, Šárka saw for the first time that other soldiers were massed on the road, standing in a rough formation.

Is that your mother? the captain asked.

Yes, replied Šárka.

I would like to meet her. Let us go inside and you can introduce us.

The captain stood, put a large hand on Šárka’s shoulder, and turned her toward the cottage. Together they walked past Šárka’s still immobile mother, to the cottage. As if the spell holding her had been lifted, Šárka’s mother turned and followed them.

Inside the cottage, not waiting for an introduction, the captain spoke to Šárka’s mother. It is a warm day. May I trouble you for some water?

Šárka’s mother hesitated, then nodded, but remained silent. She looked worryingly at her daughter then went to the kitchen and returned with a cup of water. Šárka could not help but notice the look of fear on her mother’s face. This must have been very serious indeed, for she knew her mother to be afraid of no one.

Thank you, smiled the captain and drank from the cup. Ah that is better. There is nothing like cool water to quench the thirst.

The captain made small talk and spoke of trivial matters and carried the bulk of a one-sided conversation. He appeared commanding and confident, pleasant, and relaxed. Yet she thought him too friendly for a stranger, with too big a smile. Despite his show of pleasantry, the ominous menace of the enemy remained on display, and Šárka’s mother remained on her guard. His eyes confirmed her reason for doubt. His eyes told her that before her stood a man on a serious, sad, dark, sinister mission.

No school today? He smiled at mother and child both.

Šárka’s mother shook her head.

It is very odd. My men and I just walked by the school. As far as I know, today is not a holiday, but the children are not at school. The whole place is vacant, deserted. No children. No teachers. No janitors. Don’t you think that is odd? I hope it’s nothing catching, nothing serious.

Her silent response hung in the air, which had turned quite chilly on this warm summer’s day. Šárka began to suspect that her mother had seen through her clever ruse to stay home after all.

The captain shrugged and changed the subject; Šárka, would you like some chocolate? he asked, reaching in the upper pocket of his jacket. I have some here, it’s good, Belgian chocolate, the best.

Šárka looked at her mother. She desired that chocolate so much but dared not take it. It did not seem right. After all, according to her family, chocolate should be eaten only as a luxury reserved for Christmas, birthdays, and other special occasions.

Please take it, urged the captain. I’m afraid it will melt in this heat. I have too much, I cannot eat it all. It would be a such a shame to waste it.

Šárka looked at her mother again. Her mother nodded and Šárka took the bar of chocolate from the captain’s hand.

Your daughter is a fine child. You and your husband must be very proud.

Šárka’s mother replied with a single, hesitant nod.

Where is your husband?

Šárka’s found the courage to speak on her mother’s behalf. He is at work, at the mine, he will be home soon. She meant it as a defiant threat, angered by his intimidation and her mother’s fear.

The captain’s smile told her that her bluff had failed. I’m sure he will. Then the smile dissipated, replaced with a look of deep sorrow and regret. The captain looked at Šárka’s mother.

You know why I am here?

The woman shook her head.

There are others in the uniform of myself and my men. There are others who are not under my command. There are others who will do you great harm. And they will be here within the hour. I cannot stop them. You must trust me.

And now Šárka’s mother knew he spoke in earnest, that what he would say next would be the hardest thing that could ever be said to a mother. And the hardest thing that she would ever endure.

A single, frightened nod of the head.

Captain Ayres put a hand on the woman’s arm, pulled her away from her daughter, leaned in close and whispered so the child would not hear. I have no time for niceties, I wish it were otherwise. You must trust me and give her up.

Šárka’s mother shook her head and tried to back away, but the captain held her in a vice-like grip.

You must listen. I have no choice but to tell you this. You have no choice but to listen.

Their eyes locked. She could not look away. His words could have been unspoken and she would still have heard them. They seemed to come from another place, one of profound darkness, and they entered directly into her soul, bypassing her senses all together.

I cannot change what is about to happen. I cannot save your husband. I cannot save your friends and neighbors. I cannot save their children or their teachers. I cannot save you . . . but there is a small chance that I can save her. If she comes with me now, this very moment, she may weather a storm that will sink many a ship . . . If she comes now, there is a hope that one day she may save us all.

He let go of her arm. Her instinct told her to grab Šárka and run, but she could not. As horrifying as the words were to hear, Šárka’s mother knew that he spoke the truth. Her love for her child furnished a protection as unyielding as diamonds, but his words - his eyes - cut through it. And they pierced her to her heart. She also wished it were otherwise. He had not commanded her, but she felt compelled to obey. He would not take the child by force but would leave the choice to her. How could she give up her child? Impossible! How could she trust this man, this stranger, in the uniform of the enemy? How could trust compare to love? If she had an eternity, she could never decide. But she must! How could she decide? Whatever she chose, how would Šárka ever understand or forgive her? She would never forgive herself. The moment seemed like a lifetime, but finally she had decided. Using all her remaining strength to hold back her tears, she knelt before her daughter.

Mama? asked Šárka. What is wrong?

Do not eat your chocolate now, save it for later.

Chapter 1 - Midnight in the City of Spires

"The whole series of my life appeared to me as a dream;

I sometimes doubted if indeed it were all true,

for it never presented itself to my mind

with the force of reality."

Frankenstein, Mary Shelley, 1818.

A

body without a soul is considered by many to be a cold, empty shell, devoid of purpose for the duration of the time allotted to it. Mercifully, in the vast scheme of things, that time is brief. But a soul without a body? It is misplaced, homeless, and unloved, and yet yearning for belonging and faced with eternal misery. Every soul needs a home. Homes can be found anywhere, even in the most improbable of places, but some souls get lost. They wander alone in a dark labyrinth of their own making. What is more, they know their fortune is caused by their own actions, they are not in denial, but something prevents them from changing their lot; call it pride, ambition, hubris, whatever. The result is misery.

This is what the golem thought, as he waited patiently for the next awakening. He thought it constantly, day after day, week after week, sometimes for decades at a time. And as to be expected, the thought depressed him. He dwelt on the misery more than he should, but he had little else to occupy his mind.

At one time, he thought his patience would wear thin or that he would go mad, but what else could he do? Perhaps madness had already found him? His lot? A prison built by his own actions, his only liberty on those rare occasions when summoned to do someone else’s bidding. So, he went from prisoner to slave and then back to prisoner. Slavery had little to recommend it, but at least it offered him a break from the monotonous routine, a chance to get out and about, a change of scenery, comparable to an intermission from a long, tedious movie - a bathroom break. Such was the life of a golem.

It hadn’t always been this way. Once he had been the master, not the slave. Once he had commanded fear and respect, and with no disrespect to Machiavelli, even love. Even his avowed enemy, the Watchers had once bowed down to him. The Watchers had imprisoned him, had turned him into this ugly creature who ignorant people called the golem. An ugly word - golem! It made him feel ugly. He hated it. He hated the people who gave him this name. He hated the Watchers.

The Watchers once shared his protective love of the city. For a while, they had all worked side by side for the good of the city. But eventually, his alliance with them, always tenuous at the best of times, broke. He argued with them. He fought with them. He tried to convince them that he had a job to do, and as the right man for the job, they should just let him get on with it. He had big plans, with Prague front and center as the jewel in his crown, destined for greatness, the stuff of legends. Well, at least he had achieved the legend part, just not in the way he had envisioned