Submitted to you as per your request,
Most respectfully,
Heer Lodewik Kerstan van Hoek
physician-anatomist
November 17th, 1704, at Sankt Piterburkh
6
Graf von Altenburg's breath was raspy and his skin was the color of porcelain clay; he lay in his massive bed, three quilts drawn up to his chin, his back supported on a pyramid of bolsters and pillows; the light from an oil-lamp provided a soft glow that made the dark beyond its reach appear to be illimitable and the room itself more like a cave than a bedchamber. He looked up at Saint-Germain and tried not to cough. "I suppose you will send word to my wife not to come in the spring? One of the couriers will have to carry the message."
"When a message is needed to be sent, your staff will surely do so," said Saint-Germain, holding out a cup of angelica root and elderberry tea to which an infusion of cough-weed, pine-bark, and feverfew had been added; around them the whole of the Residence was hushed, servants tip-toeing, the staff talking in whispers if they spoke at all. "But I will have a word with Schaft, if it will ease your mind."
"And you'll see that my bones are sent back to Prussia, not buried here? I want to lie in Prussian earth. Can you understand?" His voice was little more than a rustle of breath. In the last month he had lost flesh, and now there were hollows in his cheeks, his eyes were sunken, and his fingers lay like small bundles of twigs at the top of the quilts.
"Better than you know," said Saint-Germain.
He cleared his throat and did his best to suppress his coughing. "Then I am grateful to you, Hercegek."
"Please, Graf, drink this while it is still warm," said Saint-Germain.
"Don't waste your potions on me, Hercegek. I will soon have no use for them." He made a flapping motion with one hand to indicate that Saint-Germain should move away. "Give it to someone who can recover."
Saint-Germain remained where he was. "You might still do so."
Von Altenburg laughed, and gave way to a spasm of coughing, which took him some little time to overcome. "And the river might thaw in the night." He shook his head as if his skull weighed as much as an iron cauldron. "No, I know my time's up: my time's up and I've no complaint. Fifty-one is a very respectable age to attain." He studied Saint-Germain with owlish intensity. "My lungs are purulent, aren't they?"
"I fear so," Saint-Germain said evenly.
"And that means I have little hope of survival, with or without your elixirs." He sighed and fell silent for more than a minute. "I'd best thank you now for all you've done for me."
"You have no cause to thank me," said Saint-Germain.
"Not for this--that's what you've done for everyone. But for the information you provided to me when reliable reports"--he gagged and recovered--"were in short supply."
Saint-Germain was uncertain what von Altenburg meant by
reports,
but only responded, "If you have regarded our occasional discussions as a service, then I am glad to have been able to make myself available to you." He waited while von Altenburg stared away into the shadows; when he blinked and turned his oystery eyes on him, Saint-Germain added, "Is there any other service I can do for you?"
Von Altenburg considered. "Send for that minister at the English Residence--Bethune, his name is, as I recall."
"Thomas Bethune," said Saint-Germain, and signaled to Hroger, who stood on the far side of the room. "Are you certain you want to see him?"
"I am," said von Altenburg in a determined mutter. "I want to talk to a Protestant, not a Catholic or one of these Orthodox priests." A harsh cough brayed from him, and he once again made an effort to calm the urge. "Since our own Lutheran cleric left with the last boat, it is Bethune or no one." He stopped to gasp for air.
"I will send my manservant to do this for you, but I ask you to take the drink I offer you. It is not so much that it will deprive anyone beyond you of its virtue, and it should lessen your discomfort." He nodded to Hroger and saw him leave the room.
"What is the weather like?" von Altenburg asked, his eyes turning toward the shuttered window.
"It is snowing," said Saint-Germain, not adding that a blizzard was brewing over the vast expanse of marshland that surrounded Sankt Piterburkh on three sides.
Von Altenburg started to say something but was taken with another bout of coughing, this time hawking up yellow-green mucus into his embroidered handkerchief. "I can't breathe," he said hoarsely.
Saint-Germain offered the cup again. "It will put my mind at ease if you will drink this," he said calmly. "I will know I am doing all that I might to help you recover." There was one more thing he could do, but it was so desperate that he would be a fool to speak of it, he thought; he knew that von Altenburg would refuse such a life as those of his blood must lead.
Von Altenburg mumbled something.
"Would you repeat what you said, Graf? I did not quite understand you."
"Does it taste vile?" he asked, raising his voice as much as he could.
"It tastes of herbs and elderberries," said Saint-Germain, extending the cup so that von Altenburg could sniff.
"I like elderberries," he said, his eyes looking past him into the distance. "All right." His fingers scrabbled around the cup and he managed to drink half the contents before he began to cough again.
Saint-Germain took the cup and wiped von Altenburg's mouth with a soft linen cloth. "If you would like more, you have only to tell me."
Von Altenburg brought the focus of his gaze back to Saint-Germain. "I have taken too much of your time, Hercegek. You have other patients to attend to."
"Yes, I do; but not at this instant. I will remain here a while longer." He laid his hand on von Altenburg's brow, and felt the ominous combination of heat and chill. "When Bethune arrives, I will take my leave until tomorrow."
"Tomorrow!" von Altenburg scoffed, then clapped one hand to his mouth, all but choking on a cough. "Although I imagine you must say such things to your patients, but I know what I know." He looked at the cup. "I'll have the last of that, and--" He squinched his eyes closed and gave a low, painful groan.
Saint-Germain moved to steady the cup and offer his arm as support for the dying man. "Let me raise you up a little."
His breath coming in hard gasps that sounded like green wood being sawn, von Altenburg sat up and leaned forward, trying to get air into his lungs, his efforts making a noise like a razor being stropped. Four loud, tight, guttural coughs jarred through him, more mucus sprayed the quilt, and he sank back against his pillows. "The drink."
"Here. I will hold it," said Saint-Germain, and set the cup at a slight angle to his lips, tilting it slowly so that von Altenburg could finish it.
The Graf was panting shallowly as he let his head go back into the pillows. "What a wretched place this is to die, out on the edge of this marsh, among so many strangers, all for the whim of a mad Russian."
"It is a difficult location," Saint-Germain agreed, aware that von Altenburg's attention was drifting again. "If the Czar has his way, five years from now Sankt Piterburkh will be a more pleasant place."
"Not in November, unless he can change the weather as well as the island," von Altenburg growled, staring up at the shadowed ceiling. "My eyes long for ... mountains." He gasped twice. "I won't see them again."
"Tell me about them," said Saint-Germain, knowing that the more von Altenburg wandered in his mind, the harder it would be to encourage him to live.
It took over a minute for him to comply. "Not imposing or formidable as the Alps, or as small as the ... rolling Alsatian hills. Grand enough they are, with ... rivers flowing through them. My home stands above a river, on ... the brow of a long ridge." He succumbed to coughing once more, but not so wrenchingly as before; when he spoke again his voice was insubstantial as a spider's web. "It was begun in the time ... of Great Karl as a watch ... watchtower and be ... came a castle in 1280 or so, when my family was given it along with the ... lands from the river to the second ... line of mountains. We have about half as much land ... now as we did then." He stopped speaking, gulping for air.
"Try not to struggle, Graf; that makes it worse." He laid his hand on von Altenburg's shoulder, gently but firmly enough to bring about a lessening in his combat with his failing lungs. Gradually the tension went out of him and his breathing went back to a fluttering rasp.
"Why do you bother?" von Altenburg asked, just above a gnarl.
"Because you are not yet dead," said Saint-Germain, his blunt-ness softened by the kindness in his demeanor.
"Don't make ... me laugh, Hercegek," he pleaded, ending with sporadic coughs.
"It is not my intent to make you laugh," said Saint-Germain, "it is my intent to make you better."
"That's a lost cause," said von Altenburg, his words fading as he lapsed into a fitful half-sleep that revealed the depth of his fatigue.
For almost five minutes, Saint-Germain stayed still, listening to von Altenburg's labored breathing. Then he began, very quietly, to speak. "I, too, come from mountains, not as friendly as your own, yet I know what it is to miss them; they are my native earth, and I am bound to them for all my days. In my travels, I have always found that the sight of mountains comforts me, other factors notwithstanding." Even during his long incarceration in South America, fifty years ago, the Andes had provided him a degree of solace beyond what he had experienced in deserts or grasslands, or marshes.
"Ummm?" von Altenburg responded.
"The Carpathians are magnificent, rising up like the fortresses of ancient, forgotten gods." Saint-Germain spoke a little louder. "Anyone who has seen them knows their majesty, and their dangers."
Von Altenburg's eyes flittered open. "I like mountains."
"Yes, Graf." He found a chair and brought it to the side of the bed. "Tell me what you like about mountains."
"Their stillness. We all buzz and ... bustle about the world, hart and hind ... and vermin are always on ... the move, ... rivers run down to the sea, the sea ... is pulled about by ... tides, but the mountains are ... inviolate." He rubbed his lips together.
"Would you like some water?" Saint-Germain offered, aware that the gesture was futile, that water would do almost nothing for him now.
"I'm ... not thirsty."
Saint-Germain closed his eyes for a moment, feeling life slipping away from his patient. Then he opened his eyes and said, "A little water and your throat would be less dry."
He shook his head. "Doesn't matter."
A flurry of noise at the front door penetrated to von Altenburg's room, only to be hushed by the servants. The sound of soft footsteps approached the door, and there was a hesitant tap on the planks.
"I believe Thomas Bethune is here," said Saint-Germain, rising from the chair. "Shall I go and let him in?"
Von Altenburg nodded, his fingers twitching.
Saint-Germain was half-way to the door when it opened and Hroger stepped through, Bethune immediately behind him. "You made good time, old friend."
"No reason to linger on the street," said Hroger, taking the end of his muffler and unwinding it from around the lower part of his head. "The wind is picking up, and the drifts are deeper."
Thomas Bethune wore his clerical bands spread on his slate-colored woolen coat, and the hair that hung around his shoulders was his own and not a wig; he was pale but for wind-ruddied spots on his face. He bowed slightly to Saint-Germain. "Hercegek. I understand Graf von Altenburg has asked to see me."
"Mister Bethune," said Saint-Germain. He stepped aside so that Bethune could see von Altenburg. "He will not last much longer."
"God have mercy on him," whispered Bethune.
"If you can assure him of that, he will depart this life with more peace than if you dwell on his shortcomings." Saint-Germain held up his hand before Bethune could respond. "I am concerned because so many Protestant divines dwell on sin and failings. For his sake, put your emphasis on grace."
Bethune nodded twice. "I am not his cleric, so I haven't the position to take him to task."
"Hroger and I have others whom we must visit." He bowed again and motioned Hroger to leave the room with him. In the next chamber they found Theophilius Schaft and Hugo Weissenkraft waiting with Echbert Gluck, the steward.
"Can you tell us anything?" Schaft was the first to speak, anxiety in every lineament of his body.
"I am sorry to tell you: another hour or two at most, and then you will have to alert the Guard and your courier." Saint-Germain could see shock and acceptance war within the three men.
"Hercegek, is there no chance?" Schaft asked, his expression so down-cast that Saint-Germain strove to provide him a little comfort.
"There is a very slim one, but it is not to be depended upon, I regret to say. The Graf is no longer clinging to life. If the Graf were younger, or if he had the will to stay alive, perhaps he could rally, but as it is--"
"Are you certain?" Gluck asked abruptly; he was new to his post, having arrived in Sankt Piterburkh in late September, and this development was more than he wanted to deal with.
"No; as I am not certain that a great flood will not inundate Sankt Piterburkh before morning. But I know he cannot live much longer." He studied the three men. "You will need to have your notifications ready; Schaft, I imagine you know the Graf's instructions for the disposal of his body."
"Boiled and the bones sent home to Prussia in the spring," he said with distaste.
