Heraclix and Pomp: A Novel of the Fabricated and the Fey Page 7

  “She was long dead when I took her down,” Nicklaus said. “There was a note that read ‘Dear Nicklaus, your dealings with that man brings shame upon our house. I can no longer live with such shame.’”

  “I read the note and thought about it as I buried my mother in a clearing in the woods. Here I had worked to earn the money for her freedom, and the very source of that money had caused her death. I was despondent, in a dark and troubling dream for who knows how long. It’s a wonder I didn’t die of starvation. I don’t remember eating for a long time. I prayed aloud, apologized to God, my mother, and all the saints for what I had done, pleading for forgiveness. Alcohol, I found, dulled the pain, soothed the hurt a little. This furthered the dream-state. I was muddled and lost.”

  “And then, one night, clarity came to me in a flash. I remembered: mother didn’t know how to write. She couldn’t have written that note. It was as if a lantern had been lit in my mind. My mother had not hung herself, she had been hung!”

  “Then,” a mystical tone entered Nicklaus’s voice, “then I heard her speak.”

  Heraclix’s discomfort was visible. Logic told him that Nicklaus’s hearing a voice from the dead was no stranger than his own undead rebirth, yet logic also told him that he was listening to the ramblings of a drunken, emotionally broken man.

  “I looked up there,” Nicklaus pointed, again, to the rafters, “and there she was, hanging by a noose like the day I found her. But she was alive and smiling and she spoke to me!” He giggled, sending shivers up Heraclix’s spine.

  “She told me that I was right, that the villagers had killed her while I was away, that they were afraid of the Serb and our business with him. So they killed her and forged the note to convince me that she had hung herself.”

  “She said she was happy now, beyond the veil, sharing eternity with others who had been innocent victims of violence and misunderstanding. She looked so peaceful, just hanging there, smiling down at me. She said she would visit, from time to time. And she has, she has. She will come to me in the night sometimes, and we will talk of old times and the friends she is meeting there.”

  He paused, and the manic smile slipped into a satisfied grin. He nodded his head, approvingly.

  “I am so very glad that she is happy. That’s all I ever wanted.”

  He stared at the floor.

  Heraclix and Pomp stared at each other.

  After a long moment of silence, Heraclix cleared his throat and spoke.

  “Nicklaus, we don’t want to dredge up old . . . problems, but we are here to gather some information.”

  The smile instantly dropped from Nicklaus’s face, and he was the dour, depressed-looking man they had conversed with earlier. Pomp was confused and repulsed by the change.

  “Yes?” he said in a businesslike tone.

  “We are curious to find this Serb, this Vladimir Porchenskivik. You mentioned that he lives not far from here. Where exactly does he live?”

  “Ten miles into the mountains, up this same path.”

  “Very good. How will we know when we have found his home?”

  “You will know, trust me,” the wicked hint of a smile slipped at the corner of his mouth.

  “One more question before we go: what route did you take and where exactly in Vienna did you take the hand?”

  “Vienna? I didn’t take the hand to Vienna. I took it to Prague.”

  “Prague?” The emphasis with which Heraclix said the word betrayed his surprise.

  Nicklaus nodded. “To a man, a mystic or philosopher or sorcerer of some type. I don’t remember exactly where, and I already told you I never knew the man’s name. His place was somewhere near the old castle, I think.”

  Heraclix was obviously intrigued. “And what did this man look like?”

  Nicklaus seemed suddenly sobered. “Why, he could have been your cousin, your brother. Could have been you yourself.”

  “Me?” Heraclix was now thoroughly confused, as was Pomp.

  “The resemblance is strong, that’s all.”

  Heraclix squinted an eye. “That’s not really all, is it?”

  Nicklaus shrank back.

  “I’m not going to hurt you,” Heraclix said.

  “And I have no wish to hurt you,” Nicklaus said. “But since you ask,” he paused, concentrating to dredge up a memory, “the mystic in Prague, he resembled you in the face. Though he was not as ugly, and infinitely more sad. This is all I remember.”

  “Very well,” Heraclix said. He slowly stood up and offered a pair of gold coins to Nicklaus.

  The drunk, crazy man waved his hand, indicating that he wanted no part of the money. “I don’t need your money. If anything, please give it to Herr Bohren back in the village. He hates me, and I have tried to make friends with him, but he refuses. Maybe he will take a gift of goodwill from you, acting as my proxy.”

  “Bohren?” Heraclix asked.

  “You’ll know him when you see him. He is a small man, and the most sharply dressed person in Bozsok.”

  “I will deliver the gift,” Heraclix said.

  “Good. And when you see old Porchenskivik, please thank him. He did not cause my troubles, and the wealth he gave me has helped me to cope.” He looked down again at the bottle, watching as Heraclix’s and Pomp’s distorted images became thinner in the reflecting curves of the glass, then disappeared altogether.

  Major Von Graeb sat in a tall-backed chair that loomed like a cathedral tower over him. A pair of lanterns, placed on the table at which he sat, cast the chair’s shadow along the floor behind him. Their brightness caused him to squint at the city map, which was pinned under the lanterns.

  Past the table, to Von Graeb’s left, Graf Von Helmutter stood with his back to the Major, staring out a large window. Outside, in the darkness, soldiers stood around barrel-fires warming their hands.

  “Twice,” Von Helmutter said. “Twice! And he slipped from my hands both times.” He shouted so loud that he began coughing. “I’m surprised the emperor hasn’t forced me to resign. If his mother was still in charge, I wouldn’t have lasted this long.”

  “Perhaps the emperor is not concerned with the giant.”

  “If he knew what I know about such beings, he would be sure to expunge this thing from the shadows.”

  “Well, he won’t be hiding among the gypsies again,” Von Graeb said. “We’ve made that quite impossible.”

  Von Helmutter turned toward his assistant, wiping his nose with a lace handkerchief. “You sound bitter, major.”

  “Some orders are easier to carry out than others, Sir.”

  “Understandable,” Von Helmutter said. “It is sometimes difficult to do what needs to be done.” He walked to the table and took a seat opposite Von Graeb, where the glare of the lanterns would hide his face from the major, while clearly illuminating Von Graeb’s.

  Von Graeb noted that the minister looked more pale than usual. Was it the light, or something else?

  “There are some tasks, even in the stoic ranks of the military,” Von Helmutter began, “where one is given latitude to make decision regarding another’s fate. But in a situation such as this, where the denizens of the world beyond are involved, one can give no quarter. A monster like that cannot be reasoned with. The second you begin to listen to it, you open yourself to being deceived.”

  Von Graeb looked at the shadow behind the lights, perplexed.

  “What I am saying,” Von Helmutter said, “is that there can be no detente with the beast. He, it, must be found and exterminated!” He coughed aloud again.

  Von Graeb could see the ghostly flash of the handkerchief in the lantern light as the minister wiped his nose and mouth. Small, dark stains now appeared on the white lace.

  “You are determined to slay him,” Von Graeb said.

  “The powers beyond the veil are not to be trifled with,” Von Helmutter said. He leaned forward enough that the lantern light shone up under his chin, making him look like a disembodied face, ghostlike. T
here were hints of blood beneath his nose and lower lip, contrasting sharply against his sickly, pale skin. “You know this as well as I do.”

  “Not as well, Kommandant. You have been trained to combat the forces of darkness. I am only aware of their presence.”

  “Your grandmother was a medium, I hear,” Von Helmutter said.

  “That is the rumor, Herr Kommandant.”

  “You do well to keep your knowledge a secret, Major. But I know what you know.”

  “I am sure you know better, sir. I have had no formal training, just tales at my grandmother’s knee.”

  “I wonder if you don’t know more than you let on,” Von Helmutter said. “I was trained by an old man up in Prague. To this day, I don’t know his name. I was instructed to never ask his name. I’m certain he is dead and gone now. It has been many years. I was quite young at the time, and very curious to learn every aspect of the warrior’s way, regardless of the opponent. He taught me so many things that it all seems, in hindsight, like a dream, a misty whirlwind of swords and spirits. But one teaching was drilled into my head: you cannot suffer a demon to stay in this world for long. It is unnatural, blasphemy. It upsets the balance of things.”

  “But, sir,” Von Graeb said, “we use mystic ways of dealing with the powers of Hell ourselves. Are we not the blasphemers?”

  “Perhaps,” Von Helmutter said. “But, if so, better that Earth should hold power over Hell.”

  “There is a danger,” Von Graeb said, “that wielding such hellish power might itself corrupt the Earth. These supernatural powers are, by their very definition, something not natural to this world. Those who reach too far beyond the veil are liable to be pulled into the void beyond.”

  “All the more reason that we must do all we can to find and destroy this creature before we, too, are swept up in the tide of its wickedness.”

  The clouds had begun to burn off by the time Heraclix and Pomp again spotted the village. Large puddles of standing water in the flat areas reflected the clouds as they broke up, causing mottled pools of blue and grey amongst the green grasses of the low hills.

  Shutters and doors were now open, and the pair saw men repairing planks and women sweeping sheets of water from their house floors. A few children played among the puddles, shattering the reflected sky with their stomping feet. In front of The Eternal Struggle, Bohren and a few companions, including the blacksmith, were gathered together in a semicircle discussing some matter.

  Before Heraclix could get to the group to request Bohren’s attention, the semicircle had unfolded a bit to allow egress to a young man, almost a boy, dressed in the uniform of a government messenger.

  “Attention citizens of Bozsok!” the boy yelled in a voice far more powerful than his little lungs should have allowed. “I bear news from Vienna, from the offices of Graf Von Helmutter, Minister of Defense. News and a request for action. A request for action with a reward.”

  Heraclix stopped at the mention of Von Helmutter’s name, not daring to step closer.

  “He is here?” Pomp asked.

  “Shh! I don’t think so,” Heraclix said, straining to hear the messenger.

  “A renegade of giant stature is at large and wanted by the graf. He has promised a reward of thirty silver thalers to the man who captures and delivers this monster to him. Be warned, the giant is dangerous, a killer! And he is known to have kidnapped small children!”

  “What?” Heraclix said, careful to suppress the volume of his voice. “Kidnapped small children?”

  The villagers, who had now been joined by others, talked among themselves. Bohren then addressed the messenger. “How shall we know how to identify this creature?” he asked.

  The messenger reached into a large courier bag and retrieved a scroll.

  “I have placed,” he announced, “several posters to help you identify the renegade.” He unfurled the scroll, holding it up for all to see. “Here is the man—here is the monster!”

  Gasps erupted from all present, for those who had not seen Heraclix had surely heard him described. There was no doubt that the monster in the drawing was the stranger who had barged in on them last night. A young girl, no more than eight years of age, screamed out, pointing to Heraclix in the distance, “There he is!”

  Heraclix didn’t wait to determine which motive drove the villagers. Rather, he bolted, not the way he had come, since that would lead them back to Nicklaus and Nicklaus’s certain demise at the hands of the mob. He ran at top speed, noting one of the many posters that had been attached to the trees surrounding the village. The words were clear enough—wanted, danger, reward, and a list of legal reminders to anyone who would be so foolish as to aid or harbor the criminal. But what really caught Heraclix’s attention was the picture that had been drawn on the poster. It was an exaggerated drawing of him, eyes aflame like some demon, his mouth full of needle-sharp teeth like those he had seen on the skull in Vadoma’s parlor. One hand held a dead soldier by the neck; the other held a bundle of swaddling clothes out of which the pudgy face of an infant peeked.

  Below the picture, the caption read BABY STEALER, KILLER.

  CHAPTER 7

  Pomp flies up into the mountains ahead of Heraclix. She doesn’t want to overburden him by sitting on his shoulder. His leg hurts more and more as they walk on. She isn’t sure if he can make it to the Serb, but she doesn’t say anything about this doubt. She doesn’t want to worry him. Worry, she is beginning to understand, is no fun at all.

  Heraclix looks bad. He grabs his wounded thigh with one hand and his wounded arm with the other. He shakes his head. His breathing sounds bad. Pomp hopes he won’t die.

  “It hurts,” Heraclix says. His voice is not quite the same now.

  “What hurts?” Pomp asks, flying backwards just ahead of him.

  He stumbles, falls to a knee, then gets back up.

  “. . . pain . . . will I die? Can I die?” he asks.

  Pomp is confused. “I can’t answer. I don’t know.”

  “. . . maybe . . . go back . . . jump from the rocks . . . it hurts so bad . . .”

  He starts to turn around and walk back the way he came.

  “No!” Pomp yells. She slaps his face.

  He looks at her. He squints, then his eyes focus.

  “We are close now,” Pomp says.

  “Close. Yes. I have to know . . .”

  Pomp shakes her head. The hole grows inside her again as she watches her friend struggle through the pain.

  Heraclix nods. “Yes . . . we will go on.”

  “Don’t worry,” Pomp reassures him. “I won’t leave you.”

  It’s evening by the time the pair comes across the path that leads to Porchenskivik’s home. The narrow trail grows even thinner, encroached upon by sinewy, thorned bushes and low, dark evergreens. Ferns drape across the path, causing it to disappear from time-to-time, only to reappear in some random location, so twisted is the underlying path.

  Pomp spies a rabbit in the undergrowth. It’s wide-eyed and trembling. She flies down to investigate.

  Heraclix crashes through the brush, reenergized. He pulls down vines and swats away branches, carving a tunnel through the web-like woods.

  Pomp returns and comes up behind Heraclix to avoid the flying debris he generates. She’s laughing as she approaches.

  “The bunny is funny! She thinks we are in her den. She says she’s never seen something as big as you underground!”

  “Maybe we are underground, Pomp,” he says with a mischievous grin. “Have you looked up lately?”

  Pomp looks up and sees only glowing green leaves. The sky is not visible.

  “No sun,” she says.

  “We’ll find it again,” Heraclix says as he rips branches down. “I think we will, anyway.”

  Pomp flies up high, past the branches, through the trees. Even birds avoid this place, she thinks. The only things up here are spiders and bugs.

  “I will go up to see where we are,” she says.

&nb
sp; But before she gets to the top and breaks through, she remembers that she has promised not to leave her friend. So she flies back down.

  She can see that Heraclix is growing tired again. He makes frustrated growls as he encounters obstacles. His voice gets weaker as they wear on.

  “Keep going, Heraclix,” Pomp says. “We are moving through . . . you are doing great . . . here we are!”

  And they were!

  They spilled out of a wall of green, crashing through ivy and tree branches onto a clearing. The sky was still invisible, but the undergrowth had been cut up and the trees had been cut back from the moss-covered stone walls of a single circular tower whose top thrust above the trees, beyond their sight. The leaves created a hemispherical bubble that glowed green. At the top of the bubble, about forty feet up, the tower disappeared, shrouded from view by the upper branches of the trees.

  Heraclix spotted an ivy-clutched door set into the bottom of the tower. He went over to investigate while Pomp checked out the thin, arrow-shaped windows that occasionally punctuated its sides.

  Pomp flew up to one of the windows, three stories up. She peeked inside, then froze. She hurriedly flew down to where Heraclix was.

  “Pomp wants to go inside, but then Pomp remembers that she promised to stay with Heraclix, so Pomp is here with Heraclix.”

  Heraclix turned to her and gave a weak smile.

  “Thank you, Pomp.”

  He turned and looked up at the tower, which stretched up and disappeared in the canopy of leaves overhead.

  “We’ll go in together.”

  There was no knocker on the door, no bell, so Heraclix rapped on the door, gently at first, then harder when he realized that the vines were muffling the knock of his knuckles. No matter how hard he hit the door, the sound was softened, nearly silenced, as if the tower was stuffed with cotton.

  He tried the door, which opened readily, albeit noisily on squeaky hinges. Dust cascaded down, rolling out from the doorway, streaking the grass and leaving clear spots only where Heraclix’s feet were. Pomp sneezed once, then flitted in, followed by Heraclix.