Stephen Lawhead - The Skin Map

“Thank you for stopping for me,” she said. “Ich bin Wilhelmina.” My name is Wilhelmina.

“A good name,” replied the man, his own accent broad but light. “I, too, have a name,” he announced proudly. “I am Englebert Stifflebeam.” Lifting a plump hand, he raised his shapeless hat and made a comical little bow from the waist.

The old-fashioned gesture touched her strangely and made her smile. “I am happy to meet you, Herr Stifflebeam.”

“Please! Please, Herr Stifflebeam is my father. I am simply Etzel.”

“Etzel it is.”

“You know,” he confided cheerfully, “I almost did not stop for you.”

“Oh?”

“I thought you were a man.” He indicated her strange clothes and short hair. He smiled and shrugged. “But then I said to myself-think, Etzel, maybe this is how they are dressing in Bohemia. You have never been out of Munchen, so how do you know what they do in Bohemia?”

Mina heard the word Bohemia and wondered at it. She had to think a moment to phrase the next question in German, then said, “If you don’t mind my asking, how did you come to be in Cornwall?”

He gave her a strange look. “Bless me, Fraulein, but I have never been to England. This Cornwall is in England, oder?”

“But we are in Cornwall now,” she informed him. “This is Cornwall.”

He put back his head and laughed; it was a full and happy sound. “Young people must have their jokes, I suppose. No, we are not in England, Fraulein. We are in Bohemia as you surely must know,” he told her, then added by way of explanation: “We are on the road that leads to Prague.”

“Prague?”

Englebert regarded her with a look of pitying concern. “Ja, I think so.” He nodded slowly. “At least, this is what the signs tell me.” He examined her again for a moment, then said, “Could it be that you are lost, Fraulein?”

“Jawohl,” she sighed, slumping back in her seat. “Most definitely, lost.” The desperate strangeness of her plight came crashing in upon her with renewed vengeance. First London had disappeared, and now Cornwall. What next? Tears of fear and frustration welled up in her large dark eyes. She thought, What in God’s name is happening to me?

“There, there, Schnuckel. Not to worry,” said her podgy companion as if reading her mind. “Etzel will take good care of you. There is nothing to fear.” He reached behind the seat back and produced a heavy woollen blanket, which he passed to her. “Here, your clothes are wet and it is getting cold. Wrap yourself in this. You will feel better, ja?”

Accepting the blanket, she brushed at the tears with the heels of her hands. Schnuckel-it was what her grandmother had always called her, the same grandmother, in fact, whose German she spoke and whose name she bore. “Vielen Dank.” She sniffed, gathering the travel robe around her. As the warmth began to seep into her, she did feel a little better for his reassurance. Keep it together, girl, she told herself. You’ve got to keep a clear head. Think!

Her first thought was that without a doubt her current predicament was all her low rat of a boyfriend’s fault. All that talk about laying lines, or whatever it was, and crossing thresholds into other worlds and all that malarkey. It was so… she searched for a word. Impossible. So utterly impossible. No rational and sane person would have, could have believed him.

Yet, here she was.

But where was that?

“Excuse me, Herr Stifflebeam-”

“Etzel,” he corrected her with a smile.

“Excuse me, Etzel,” she said, “but where are we exactly?”

“Well, now,” he said, sucking his teeth as he considered, “we are a little way from the village of Hodyn in the province of Bohemia, which is part of the great empire of Austria.” He gave her a sideways glance. “Where did you think we might be, if I may ask?”

“I hardly know,” she replied. At least she was growing more comfortable with the language as, like a rusty pump that only required priming, the words began to flow more easily. “I was travelling with someone who has gone missing. There was a storm, you see, and I seem to have become a little confused.”

Englebert greeted this explanation with placid acceptance. “Travel can be very confusing, I find. And yes, the storm-it was very strong, ja?”

“Jawohl!” she agreed. You have no idea.

They continued along in silence. Mina gazed out at the drab countryside, all brown and grey beneath dark October skies-if it was still October; she assumed it was, but couldn’t be sure. The fields were small, and neatly kept behind their stone and wicker fences. Wooded hills clothed in the gold and brown of autumn rose to either side of the cobbled road and, here and there, she saw small slat-board houses, weathered grey, with shake shingles covered with moss, and whitewashed houses with low thatched roofs. It all looked so very old-timey…

“What is the time?” she asked suddenly. “I mean, what year?”

“It is the thirtieth year of Emperor Rudolf ’s reign,” answered Etzel promptly. He seemed to sense that the confusion surrounding his hitchhiking companion encompassed not only place but time as well. “It is the Year of Our Lord 1606.”

“I see.” Wilhelmina’s brow lowered. It was bad enough when she had imagined she was in Cornwall. This was worse. But if anything was to be done about it, she failed to see what it might be. Don’t panic, she told herself. Something will come to you. Until then, you’ve got no choice but to roll with it.

“Are you hungry?” asked Etzel.

“A little,” Mina admitted.

“I myself am always hungry,” he proclaimed, as if it was a singular achievement. “Behind the seat you will find a Tasche, ja?”

Mina swivelled around in the seat, parted the cloth that covered the wagon and formed an entrance to the wagon box, and saw barrels and casks and large bags of what looked like flour, or maybe sugar. “Do you see it?”

“Here it is!” She spied a lumpy hopsack bag and snatched it up.

Placing it in her lap, she loosened the drawstring and folded down the sides to reveal half a loaf of heavy dark bread, a muslin-wrapped wedge of cheese, a scrag end of sausage, three small apples, and a crockery flask of something that appeared to be wine.

“Take whatever you wish,” Etzel invited. He reached over and broke off a chunk of bread. “Like so, ja?”

Mina followed his example, broke off some bread, and popped it into her mouth. It was chewy and flavoured with caraway-just like her mother and grandmother used to make. “All those barrels and bags in the back,” she said, speaking around a second mouthful. “Are you a travelling salesman?”

“Nein, Fraulein,” he replied, helping himself to an apple. “Try some cheese,” he urged. “To tell the truth, I have never before travelled outside Bavaria.”

“You are Bavarian?”

“Ja, I am from Rosenheim. It is a small town not far from Munchen. You will not have heard of it.” He raised the apple to his lips, nipping it neatly in half in a single bite. “Do you like the bread?”

“Yes, very-it is delicious,” she replied.

“I made it,” Etzel confessed, a touch of shyness shading his tone. “I am a baker.”

“Really?” wondered Wilhelmina. “What a coincidence-I am a baker too.”

Etzel turned on his seat and regarded her, his blue eyes wide with surprise above his chubby pink cheeks. “There is no such thing as coincidence, Fraulein. I do not believe so. This,” he announced grandly, “is a most fortuitous meeting.”

“Fortuitous?” She puzzled over the word. “Fate, you mean?”

“Fate!” He said it as if the word itself was sour. His round cheerful face scrunched up in thought. “It is…” He paused, then declared with a shout of triumph, “Providence! Ja, it is Providence that has brought us together. You see, I am a baker who is in need of a helper.” He placed a hand on his chest. “And you are a baker in need of a friend, I think-and perhaps more, ja?”