#hejda chronicles

Valentine was surprisingly calm today.

Mag walked through the streets, making his was to the general store. He needed more whiskey; his leg and back had been flaring up so bad he’d nearly emptied his flask. He walked through the door, grinning as he waved to the clerk.

His cane clanked against the floor as he picked a bottle off the shelf and put it on the counter. He pulled out his wallet and slid the money onto the table.

“Ain’t you a little young to be… drinkin’ that?” The clerk asked, glancing at the cane and back to Mag. “You know, there’s a doctor around here.”

Mag smiled politely. “I’ll be alright. Thanks.” He picked up the bottle and walked out, heading for the road by the post office.

There was a young man outside, looking around anxiously. Mag tried not to make eye contact, but the boy saw him anyway and ran up. “Excuse me sir, so sorry, do you happen to know a— “he pulled out an envelope and read the lettering on the front— “Magda? Hej… Hejda?”

He hadn’t heard that name since… no. “I know her, yes. Why do you ask?”

“Could you bring this to her?” The boy held the envelope out to him. “I was told to give this to her.”

Mag nodded, accepting the envelope. The boy thanked him graciously, seeming much too eager to get out of here. Mag looked at the writing on the front. Magda Hejda. That name… at least they got the last name right. Mag put the letter in his pocket and continued along the road to camp.

——————

The sun had set by the time Mag had reached the gang’s camp. His leg ached, his back ached, his head ached— he opened the new bottle and took a sip before pouring the rest into his flask. He needed a horse.

Back at his tent, he sat down. Somewhere, guitar music and the clang of the dinner pot could be heard. He lit a lamp, took a breath, and opened the note.

Magda watched as her father joined the other men with a bucket to put out the blaze. She moved forward to grab a bucket herself, but her sister held her back, shaking her head. This was a man’s job.

Other families ran to neighbor’s porches and watched in horror as three centerpiece of their community went from a tangle of flames, to disappearing in smoke, to a charred skeleton drenched in water. A baby nearby started crying.

——————

Irina found Magda as the town gravitated towards the crowd of men by the front doors of the church. What used to be the front doors, anyway. “What are they talking about?” She whispered, clutching Magda’s arm. Magda shrugged, straining to listen at the words being thrown about in the shouting match in front of them.

“How did—?!”

“It wasn’t me, I put the candles out! What about—“

“Martin was the last one to—“

“But I saw him at—“

“Quiet!!” Mr. Medvedev made his way to the center of the gathering, swinging his cane. “Bickering will not solve the mystery.” He sighed, putting the cane down and leaning on it. “Who was in charge of closing the church this evening?”

Martin, one of the young men, stepped forward with wide eyes. “I- I did sir. But I put out all the candles, I swear—“

“Hush!” Mr. Medvedev turned to the others. “And who was in charge of patrols?”

Magda’s father stepped forward. “I was. I noticed the fires.” Magda pulled Irina around to another angle to listen better.

“And where were you when the fire started?” Mr. Medvedev raised an eyebrow.

“About a block away from the church. I was stationed at this part of town for the night and I smelled smoke,” her father explained. He made eye contact with Magda from the other side of the crowd; she looked down.

“Magda!” Her father called out. Magda froze. “Come here.”

She stepped toward the crowd of men, Irina still clinging to her. “Sir?”

“What time did you get home last night?” Her father raised an eyebrow.

Mag’s eyes widened. “Father—“

One of her father’s friends turned to him. “What are you implying, Kutuzov? Surely she was asleep, it was the middle of the night—”

“No.” Her father shook his head. “She walks out late at night. Lately, she hasn’t had any… incidents—” Magda winced— “but I hadn’t seen her when I left after dinner. Magda,” he turned back to her, “answer me.”

“After mama was asleep. The sun had set,” Magda confessed, “but I was asleep when the fire was set, I swear! I came out of the house with the others!”

Mr. Medvedev glanced at her before turning to her father. “Mr. Kutuzov, are you accusing your daughter of… setting fire to the church? She’s had issues in the past, but surely…”

Irina stepped in front of Magda. “No!!! She would never!! How dare you—“

“Irina!” Mr. Demidova pulled his daughter back. Magda was exposed, facing her father, the mayor, and a great many more.

“Magda,” Mr. Medvedev called, looking at her sternly. “Did you set our church on fire?”

Magda swallowed. “No sir.”

One of the other young men stepped forward— Sergei. He had been one of her favourite boxing partners. “She could have set the fire and gotten to her house in time to come back with the rest.”

“How do we prove that?” Martin asked. “I mean, when I left, there was nothing.” The crowd devolved into further discussion. Magda’s mind spun. She felt she would be sick. She had been asleep. She would never set fire to her church. It was one of the few places she was safe. Where was the priest—?

Father Vasily walked out from behind the church, holding up a small punk tassel. “I… found this on the ground in the back.” He held it up, looking at Magda with a heartbroken expression. The tassel matched her shawl. Her stomach dropped.

“It was you!” Her father grabbed her arm, shaking her. “Why did you lie?!” Magda wept, shaking.

“Arrest her, then! It’s settled!” Sergei cried.

“Wait!” Father Vasily held his hands up. “She’s troubled. Put her somewhere she can improve. She’s not—“

The crowd erupted once again, yelling. They had their convict. Magda sobbed into her shawl, the one somehow missing a tassel. It wasn’t her. She would never. She loved the church. The quiet. The music. The icons. God, the icons—

“Quiet!” Mr. Medvedev slammed down his cane. “I agree with Father. She’s young. She’s unwell. Maybe the asylum’s the best place for her.” Magda’s mother was brought to the crowd as he finished his sentence. “Ah, Mrs. Kutuzova.” Mr. Medvedev frowned sympathetically. “I’m sorry.”

Magda looked to her mother, silently pleading. Please, no, don’t believe them. I love you. Please, mama, you know me. Her mother looked to her, then back to the mayor. “She burned down the church, didn’t she? God…” Her mother put her hand over her mouth as her father wrapped his arm around her.

“They want to send her to the asylum,” her father relayed. “It was Father’s suggestion.” Her mother nodded, crying silently. Mag stared, trembling.

“In the morning?” Her father asked.

“Yes, that would be best,” the mayor responded.

“No!” Magda yelled. “No, you can’t— it wasn’t me—!”

“Quiet, Magda. It’s for the best.” Her father glared at her. Her mother nodded in agreement. Magda was picked up under the arms— by someone, her head spun too much to know who— and dragged back to her house. Her mother guided her up the stairs and to her room, weeping. The door closed.

——————

Magda stared out the window. At the lights lining the street. They should be off right now. Everyone should be asleep. The church should be blocking the now-rising sun. She should—

She should run away. She can’t stay here. They’re sending her away. They don’t trust her. They blame her. They’re getting rid of her.

Magda tiptoes downstairs, stealing trousers and a shirt from one of her brothers and tucking it in her bag. She puts a loaf of bread and some dried meat in a sack. She walks past her sister’s room. Sneaks in. Kisses her sleeping sister on the forehead, tears falling in her hair. Walks out the back door.

The woods are quiet, except for the birds. Her mother— no. She always said Magda was named after a bird. Hopefully, that means she can fly. Far away from here.

The inside of saloon did not match the streets outside in the slightest. Young men jostled about, yelling and laughing and occasionally crying. The less rowdy searched for refuge in the corners, or at the edges of the bar. Mag decided an empty barstool at the end would be the best place to perch.

After three shots of whiskey— his back hurt— he turned to watch the room. No-one seemed to pay him much mind. All the patrons were minding their own business. The tables in the middle of the room were the busiest; a few workers had clambered up onto chairs and tables and were half-singing, half-yelling a common song. A man walked past sobbing into a beer bottle. Another was holed up in the corner, staring at Mag. Directly at Mag. His nose looked familiar.

Money for the drinks. Check for other potential threats. Find the back exit. There always was one. Which came in handy during times like this, when certain old friends decide to camp out at the corner by the front door. Except this exit led to an alleyway, and apparently Sasha knew. Mag turned around was greeted with a fist to the face.

"Hello," Sasha snarled, in their shared Russian. "How are you? Your nose still fucked up?" He chuckled darkly as Mag scrambled to his feet.

"Could be better. Your head still fucked up?" Mag spat back, his nose sounding stuffed. "Hope you're still slow. Makes my job easier." He bobbed Sasha's wild punch. "The answer is yes, then."

Sasha roared and swung his fist wildly again. Mag took a step back. At least he never figure out how to— Sasha's next punch landed in Mag's ribs. He heard a snap; expected, considering Sasha's being twice his size. Slow, dumb, but Christ he was strong.

"Medvedev wanted to make sure you got your letter." Sasha picked Mag up by the collar of his shirt and slammed him into the wall of the saloon. "You hadn't sent a response." He grinned. "I volunteered to… 'check up' on you."

"Is that how he put it?" Mag grimaced. Sasha certainly didn't come up with that himself. "Well, you can tell him I'm to be expected. Just ran into a few hiccups."

Sasha's face hardened. "He said this is your last warning. Next time, I get to bring you back with me." He slammed Mag into the wall again and threw him into a stack of crates. He turned to leave, but stopped.

Boxing practice had been like this since the start today. Sasha threw the first punch of the drill, she completed it just fine. Mag threw the first punch… he got his half wrong. It was the range, she thought. He was too far away, not bobbing enough. She wouldn't say anything, though. She knew any advice on her part would be met with a glare or worse. It was like that with anyone she worked with.

Even at seven years old, she was almost as tall as her partner; Sasha was twelve, and absolutely hated being partnered with the little girl. They all did. Unfortunately for them, Mag wasn't actually that little. Mr. Kaminski knew she was too tall for the other kids her age, and too experienced. Pairing her with the older boys was for the best. Or so he thought.

Mag watched as Sasha overextended his hook again. "You're too far," she blurted. Oh no. "You need to stay close when you bob under—"

"Shut up, Mag." Sasha glared at her. "Or I'll make you." Mag looked him in the eyes, clicked her tongue, and reset. Sasha started the drill; she bobbed, corkscrewed up, hook punched and pulled just before she hit his ribcage. They weren't hitting hard today. She started the drill; Sasha slurred his movements, trying to smooth out his sloppy boxing. He pulled the punch before it hit her ribs. They weren't hitting hard today.

Sasha started the drill. Mag bobbed, corkscrewed— "I stay close, so my elbow is bent when I—"

Crack. Mag's eyes watered. She stumbled back, putting her hands up to her face. Her fingers were met with warm, sticky blood. She couldn't breath through her nose. She felt like she didn't have a nose. She looked up at Sasha, who was looking at his knuckles.

Sasha sneered. "Now will you stop talking?" He shook his hand off. Some of the other kids turned and looked. Mag's eyes watered again. Her hands went to her skirt, wiping the blood off onto the patterned fabric, before they went to Sasha's throat as she lunged.

Sasha's head ricocheted off the floor as Mag shoved him down. Blood spewed from her nose. From his nose. From the side of his head. From his lip. From his eye—

Hands pulled her off the boy. She screamed. She would not shut up. They would not turn her into a little girl. The boys could hurt her. She could hurt them back. Mr. Kaminski ordered one of the other boys to find the doctor. And the priest.

"Sasha...?"

"He's— is he breathing—"

"He's not moving—"

"You bitch, what did you do?!"

Her knuckles hurt. But not as much as it did when Father Vasily came running with the doctor to see what Mag had done.

——————

Mag was kept in the church for a week. Father Vasily had told her family she would be healed by the Lord. In reality, he had just begged her to tell him what had happened. She refused to say a word for three days.

The doctor had come to explain to the priest in hushed tones just what the child under his supervision had done. Sasha had woken up. His brain, though... well, the little girl had gravity on her side. Mag walked out just as he described the boy's black eye; his eyes widened at the sight of her nose, but he wouldn't go near her. Not until the priest was sure she was safe.

This inn was admittedly the nicest one Mac had seen in a town like this. All the walls were sealed and it only smelled faintly of smoke and horse shit. He sat down to take his boots off, wincing as the painfully familiar crawling sensation wrapped around his left leg. He'd pay for that fight with a limp tomorrow.

The ox-man's wallet offered some consolation; there was enough money to get by with for another week or two. Three, if he really stretched it out. That money went into his own money-bag. The wallet was good-quality leather, though, and that could earn him another week's worth if he pawned it off right. Into the rucksack it went.

Sighing, Mac stood up and tried to pop his neck. He was unsuccessful. The sound of clinking plates and cooking pots found its way up the stairs to the small room. With today's score, it might be worth spoiling himself with a meal. Maybe even a bath. Mac fixed his hair and went downstairs, sneaking outside to wash the blood off his face before stepping back inside for dinner.

The inkeeper was a nice man, tall and gangly but graceful in a way only successful inkeepers are. Mac watched as he tweaked a bowl of soup, refilled a drink, and cleared a table, somehow all at once, before noticing Mac at the bar. "How can I help you, son?" The innkeeper — Mr. Rosenfeld, if Mac remembered correctly — crinkled his eyes kindly as he asked.

"What's for dinner tonight, sir?" Mac asked.

"Not much, I'm afraid. Some bread and fish."

"That's plenty for me. How much for a plate?"

"Ten cents, if you got it."

Mac chuckled and put the money on the counter. Mr. Rosenburg smiled, put the money away, and disappeared into the kitchen; he almost immediately returned with a plate, which Mac thanked him for as he left to tend to other customers.

Most people would look at the bread and fish in question and raise an eyebrow. Mac, however, took one look at the plain catfish fillet and the bread roll and resisted the urge to dance. He tried not to eat anything too fast — he didn't want to make himself sick or raise suspicion — but considering the last few days had been fueled by a handfull of berries and a slice of bread, it was hard not to. When Mr. Rosenburg returned to the bar not even ten minutes later, his expression regarding the empty plate gve away his surprise.

"I'm… glad you liked it, young man. Didn't think it was that good," he chuckled.

Mac shrugged sheepishly. "Long day."

Mr. Rosenburg took the plate and left Mac to look around the inn, watching the other customers eating their own dinners or drinking beer and chatting. He wondered, as he often did, how those other people's lives looked. Not from a place of jealousy, by any means; simply curious about other lives and stories beside his own. He knew his story, heard it every day of his life, but he didn't know theirs.

After some time, he was startled by Mr. Rosenburg's hand tapping his shoulder. "Young man, if I may—" he pulled out a barstool and sat next to Mac. "How long have you been in town?"

"Few days," Mac replied, glancing around at the tables nearby. It was sundown by now, and the dinner guests were leaving or heading to their rooms for the night. What had been a crowded, noisy room was now quiet, open, almost brighter.

"How long do you plan on staying?"

"Not much longer, I'm afraid."

"Oh." Mr. Rosenburg seemed almost disappointed by this information. He looked out at the now-empty bar and tables; no doubt calculating the chores to be done.

"Would you like help with the tables, Mr. Rosenburg?" It was a random request, but Mac didn't want to go up to his room just yet, and Mr. Rosenburg was nice. Nicer than most he'd encountered in recent weeks.

"Oh! Are you sure, young man?"

"Of course. Just tell me what to do."

Thus began an hour of scrubbing, mopping, sweeping, and stacking. Mac hadn't cleaned this much since, well, everything. He silently thanked his mother for teaching him how to clean a house; with the pace Mr. Rosenburg kept, Mac would've been left in the dust.

Mac was finishing with the dishes when Mr. Rosenburg walked up to him with a plate. "Young man, how picky are you with your food?"

"Not very." Mac turned to the old man, tilting his head. "Why?"

The inkeeper handed him the plate. On it was two more fillets and another bread roll. "This was left over from the dinner rush. Judging by how quickly you ate your first helping, you wouldn't mind a second, would you?"

"Sir! Are you— I couldn't—"

"Please. I insist." Mr. Rosenburg set the plate down and motioned for Mac to help himself. Mac obliged.

The inkeeper looked around the kitchen of his business. "You know," he began as Mac scarfed down his fish, "that was some good work you did just now. If you weren't leaving so soon, I'd suggest you stay and work for me." He shrugged.

Mac put down the plate, eyes wide. "Sir?"

"It's true! Now, I can tell you're down on your luck — don't ask, I've lived long enough to tell — and I won't get in the way of what you've got going on. But, I could use a good pair of hands to help out around here. Plus," he smiled,"judging by the state of your nose earlier, you know how to take a punch."

Mac's eyes widened at the mention of this. "You saw?!"

"You meanin' to fight me, boy?" The stranger roared, taking another step forward. What was supposed to be an easy swipe of a wallet had turned out to be entirely too much attention for Mac's taste. Now, he was face-to-face with a man built like an ox, drunk on booze and angry enough to swing at anything, especially someone half his size.

"No, sir, just looking for a drink," Mac spluttered, taking a step to preserve the distance between the two.

"I'll give ye a drink—" by drink, of course, the man meant a wild overhead punch. Mac saw it coming from a mile away.

It was easy enough to bob under the nasty swing and come back with an uppercut to the man's ribs, adding a punch to the face for good measure as his opponent hunched over and staggered back, wincing. "You— son of a—" the ox-man lunged at Mac, sending them both to the ground. Now Mac was really in trouble.

Trying to get out from under someone twice his size wasn't easy, but despite the man's near-constant punching, Mac was able to throw him off, turn, and get a choke in before the man could react. The ox-man slumped over after a few seconds, and Mac let go, looking around to see if anyone paid particular attention to the brawl. Thankfully, most were already engaged in drink, conversation, or fights of their own.