The Left-Handed God

by I. J. Parker

  Mesmer laughed heartily. “Of course you’re not. Father Gassner’s work resembles in some ways my own treatments, but he puts quite another interpretation on his healings. No, indeed, science does not deal in evil spirits; rather, it searches for the physical causes of disease.”

  That sounded better, and Franz subsided with a nod.

  “Because you dream,” Mesmer continued, “you have particular insights into the nature of your illness. It will be a simple matter to heal the wounds of the mind‌—‌or soul, if you permit the word‌—‌once we heal those of the body.”

  “B-but my wounds have h-healed.”

  “Some patients carry the invisible marks of their wounds with them for years after they are seemingly healed.”

  That sounded reasonable to Franz. Indeed, now that he thought about it, both the nightmares and his reactions to thunder were related to what had happened during the battle. But this did not explain his speech defect.

  Mesmer questioned him about the injuries he had received, had him roll his knee breeches up and his stockings down, and felt the scar tissue on both legs. Franz cringed, but he submitted for Stiebel’s sake.

  Mesmer said, “The wound to your leg is responsible not only for the poorly aligned bones, tendons, muscles, but also for a blockage of veins and fibers that run through the body, carrying the fluids of life. Having become blocked, they are creating imbalances elsewhere. It will be necessary to promote a freer flow. You are educated men and aware of the influence of the planets on the tides?”

  Franz nodded.

  “It is my theory, based on work by the English scientist Isaac Newton, the Viennese astronomer Father Maximilian Hell, and others, that the human life force can be influenced from outside the body much as the tides are by the moon. I call this connection between the fluids coursing through our bodies and the forces of nature ‘animal magnetism.’ The word animal is to be taken as a descriptive term and refers to anima, the soul or spirit of life.”

  Franz was confused and glanced at Stiebel who smiled back, nodding approval. Stiebel asked, “Then you can help my young friend, Doctor?”

  “A proper treatment would take many months, and I shall have to return to Vienna in another day.”

  Stiebel said quickly, “But could you please make a start?”

  Mesmer agreed. He moved his chair so that he faced Franz and their knees touched. Placing his hands lightly over Franz’s wound while his eyes‌—‌light brown eyes with golden flecks in the irises‌—‌looked deeply into Franz’s, he said, “Close your eyes. You must feel completely at ease to allow the magnetic force to have an effect.”

  Franz closed his eyes. He felt Mesmer gently stroking his knee. The experience was oddly pleasant. His touch was gentle and moved from his knees along his thighs and hips to his torso, and thence to his face and head and back again as if tracing the secret channels of his blood. Warmth flowed from Mesmer’s touch, a warmth which gradually relaxed his tensed muscles until he was seized by a great lassitude and drowsiness.

  Right away, the dream returned, the headless bodies, the bloody swords, the Prussian officer. He screamed and awoke.

  A smiling Mesmer sat across from him. “Good. How do you feel?”

  Had he screamed or merely dreamed the scream? It must have been in the dream, he decided. He wondered how he could have dozed off. Stiebel and Mesmer were looking at him expectantly. “I feel fine,” he said, putting aside the weight of guilt in his mind and consulting his body instead. “I was…‌dreaming of the battle again. How did you…‌?” He stopped. He had not stumbled once over the words. His stutter was gone. He asked, “Am I c-cured?” and felt foolish and disappointed that he was not.

  “Not quite,” said Mesmer, getting up and putting his chair away. “But it looks promising.” He took a small black object from a leather box on a table. “Here, take this magnet. It may do some good. When you have leisure, relax and move it back and forth over your knees and then up and down your body as I just did. You will not fall into a trance and relive the occasion of your injuries again, but it may move some of the blocked fluids. Be sure to write to let me know if you improve. That is all I can do for now. We must hope.”

  Franz parted from Mesmer in a daze. He saw Stiebel hanging back to exchange some words with the famous doctor and pass a well-filled purse into his hand, but the little lawyer climbed into the chaise without comment.

  *

  “Herr Koehl,” the innkeeper called out, “you have a visitor. I put him in the Stüble.”

  The assassin was puzzled; he expected no one. If Max had the gall to call on him here, he would tear him limb from limb. But the Stüble, while not exactly a private room reserved for a person of importance, was not the sort of place Max would have been invited to. Frowning, he opened the door to the small room with its red-checked tablecloths and leaded windows and saw a stranger waiting at a table.

  The man was no longer young but favored the bright clothes worn by students who wished to impress young women. His knee breeches were yellow, his jacket sky blue, and his vest mustard-colored. He wore a powdered wig in the latest style‌—‌with two horizontal curls over each ear and the rest caught in a black silk bag in back . A cocked hat lay on the table next to a bottle and a glass of red wine.

  “You wished to speak to me?” the assassin asked coldly.

  The dandy raised his glass and drank, insolently letting his eyes scan the assassin’s figure. He had green eyes under carroty brows. Smirking unpleasantly, he set down the glass and gestured to a chair. “Right. Have a seat, sir. We’re private here, so there’s no need to look so glum.”

  The assassin made no move. “Who are you?”

  Another smirk and a wink. “No names. Let’s just say both of us work for the same master. A great man in Mannheim.”

  Suppressing his rage at the familiarity, the assassin went to sit down. Close up, the stranger inspired even less confidence. The thin face, sharp nose, and narrow eyes reminded him of a fox. Given the man’s speech and appearance, he put him down for a valet with ambitions. His resentment increased.

  The foxy man took a letter from his jacket and handed it over, watching him expectantly. The letter had neither superscription nor seal. Putting it in his pocket, the assassin rose. “Thanks.”

  The foxy fellow grabbed his sleeve. “Not so fast, my friend. Read it.”

  The assassin flushed with anger. “I’m not your friend. Take your hands off my arm or you’ll be sorry.”

  The stranger pursed his lips, but he removed his hand. “As I’m to report what you say and do, I think you should be more polite.”

  The assassin glared, but he took out the letter again, broke it open, and read.

  It was short and unsigned: “Return immediately with the man who brings you this.”

  Fury resurged. He knew the handwriting and expected a tongue-lashing. It was galling to be treated like a hired man. He was of good birth, at least as far as people knew. As always, resentment for his parents rose like bitter bile. His mother had been a fool who had allowed his father to renege on his promise to legitimize their relationship. When the old man had died, there had been nothing but a commission for his son. He had lived by his wits and by making himself useful to men in power. A glance at the messenger told him that the repulsive creature guessed his circumstances.

  “The post leaves in an hour. I’ve paid our fares.”

  The assassin scowled. “I’ve employed a man on behalf of your master and must speak to him before I leave.”

  The foxy fellow cocked his head. “You’d best hurry then.”

  Muttering curses, the assassin returned to his room to throw his belongings into a portemanteau, then paid his bill and left his bag to be picked up later. He glared at the innkeeper who stifled his questions and regrets, and walked quickly to the Fischergasse.

  Turning over his situation in his mind, he felt the insult to be almost unbearable. He had obeyed his employer’s instructions even though he
was in danger as long as the cripple lived. It was time he looked out for his own skin before he lost his life.

  He found Max on top of a long ladder, whistling merrily as he polished the windows of the modest house. After catching Max’s eye by bumping into the ladder, the assassin strolled to the end of the street where he stopped to stare into a silversmith’s shop window.

  Max joined him with a cheerful, “Hey ho!”

  This irritated the assassin further. “Mind your manners, dolt.” He lowered his voice. “The plan has changed. I have to leave. The cripple has to go.” He saw Max’s face fall and reached into his pocket. “Here. Fifty taler on account to take care of him. You’ll get another hundred when it’s done.” It was an empty promise, because he would be long gone by then, and there was no Georg Koehl.

  Max took the money and looked at it. “Take care of him?” he asked dully. “What d’you mean?”

  “Don’t be a dunce. Kill him.”

  “No!” Max pushed the silver coins at him. “I may be a thief, but I’ll not murder a man.”

  “Not so loud. You’ve been a soldier and killed plenty of men.”

  Max drew himself up. “It’s not the same. They don’t hang you for that. They give you medals.”

  “I have no time to argue the point. Use your head. Neither of us wants a hue and cry. A quick bash with a cudgel and throw the body in the lake. It’ll be taken for an accident or a suicide.”

  Max backed away, shaking his head. “I can’t.”

  “Hell and damnation! If you don’t do it, I’ll lay charges against you for attempted robbery, and Moser will testify to your past activities. They’ll hang you for certain then.”

  Max turned pale. “You devil. I hope you get your just rewards,” he muttered, but he shoved the silver in his pocket.

  The assassin smiled thinly. “I take it we’re no longer friends. Never mind. If

  you do as I say, you’ll be safe and richer by a hundred and fifty pieces of silver. A young man can make a start at a new life with that. He can even take a wife. In fact, I may add another fifty as a wedding present for a job well done.” Seeing Max’s face turn red, he barked a laugh and walked away.

  *

  Stiebel was quiet on the homeward journey, but he looked happy. Supper was a brief affair of bread, cheese, and cold roast chicken. Stiebel ate, sipped his wine, and smiled at Franz.

  Franz was afraid to speak in case his stutter should worsen again. He did not want to disappoint Stiebel. Mostly, however, his heart was too full of gratitude.

  When the sun set behind them, its golden light turned the finials on church steeples into flames and drew sparks of fire from the surface of the lake. The rhythm of the hoof beats mingled with the sound of the turning wheels, and the outrider caught the measure and began to sing. Stiebel joined the symphony with a gentle snore. Gradually, the sinking sun’s fiery energy burned itself out, and a soft, lilac-colored haze fell over the land. The outrider’s song died away, and by the time they approached Lindau the lights of the city blinked like stars against the dusky mirror of the lake.

  It was fully dark when they stopped at Stiebel’s house. Stiebel wanted the chaise to drop Franz off first, but Franz refused. His mother and Augusta would besiege him with questions, and his heart was too full. He parted from Stiebel with an awkward embrace and muttered thanks and walked away as quickly as he could.

  The streets were empty. People were at their dinners or in the inns for a glass of beer or wine with their friends. There was hardly any moon, but Franz wanted to see the lake at night and listen to its waters lapping at the shore and think of Stiebel’s kindness. At the Brettermarkt, he turned into an alley that led toward the water.

  Almost the only sounds were his steps‌—‌irregularly spaced: one heavy step, followed by the sharp click of his cane striking the cobbles, and then the light shuffle of his right foot, followed quickly again by the firm step.

  Not even the great Mesmer could fix a cripple’s limp.

  He looked ahead for a glimpse of the water and thought about Mesmer and the magnet in his pocket, and about Stiebel and all the gold he had had to pay Mesmer, and about his affection for the little man when he noticed that another sound had joined the rhythm of his steps‌—‌a quick, soft, regular footfall. A man’s. Close.

  He swung around awkwardly, but the fellow was already upon him, a dark figure muffled in something, a hat pulled low over his face. It was too dark to see much, but Franz knew a raised cudgel even in a dark alley.

  With his crippled leg he could not move quickly, but he had his cane and brought it up like a sword to deflect the man’s blow and then to lash across his attacker’s face viciously. The cane broke, but the villain cursed with the pain. Lights came on in the nearest house, and Franz shouted for help. With another curse, the villain struck once more.

  This time, Franz was not so lucky. The cudgel caught the side of his head and sent him reeling into the house wall. He lost consciousness.

  When he came to, he was lying on the ground, and a woman was shaking his arm.

  “Get yourself home, swill pot!” she snapped. “Shame on you! Disturbing the sleep of honest, hard-working folk with your drunken brawls. Get on with you, I say, or I’ll call the guard.”

  Franz somehow got to his feet. His mouth was full of blood, his jaw felt broken, and his head hurt dreadfully. He made no attempt to explain to the angry female. His speech would simply prove to her that he was drunk.

  He found the pieces of his cane by the lamplight from the woman’s doorway. She slammed the door a moment later, and he stood swaying in the darkness, spitting out blood.

  9

  The Proposal

  O Love, what monstrous tricks dost thou play with thy votaries of both sexes! How dost thou deceive them, and make them deceive themselves! Their follies are thy delight!

  Henry Fielding, Joseph Andrews

  As it turned out, Augusta did not keep her appointment with Herr Seutter. When her brother staggered into the house, white and bloody, and collapsed on the tiled floor‌—‌where he vomited and passed out‌—‌the Langsdorff household was thrown into turmoil. Augusta sent Elsbeth for the doctor and applied cold compresses to her brother’s head while her mother wailed and tried to join him in a fainting fit.

  The doctor arrived quickly, and Franz came round, muttering unintelligibly something about robbers. Augusta and the doctor supported him up the stairs and into his bed. Her mother sobbed downstairs and called for Elsbeth, who hovered pale-faced on the stairs.

  When the doctor finished examining Franz, he shook his head. “Attacked on the street? What is this town coming to when a man is no longer safe on his way home at a decent hour? And a cripple at that.”

  Franz turned his head away. Augusta’s anxiety made her voice sharp. “My brother will not thank you for calling him a cripple.”

  The doctor raised his brows. “I daresay,” he remarked coldly. “Well, bed rest for two days. Nothing stronger than some veal broth if he’ll take it. Call me if he should fall to raving. That will be two taler, if you please.”

  The comment about raving frightened Augusta into meekly fetching the gold and seeing him out without further argument.

  That night she sat beside her brother’s bed as he slept fitfully, twitching and moaning now and then. He did not show any signs of delirium, but every sound he made sent Augusta into a panic. When he finally woke it was daylight. He mumbled about an aching head and wanted to know what time it was.

  Relieved, Augusta said, “Gone past eight. You’re to stay still and have nothing but broth for a day or so.”

  “Past eight?” he cried, sitting up. Clutching his head, he grimaced and swallowed. “Why the devil didn’t you wake me? Oh, God, it hurts!” he muttered. “But I should be at work. What will Herr Stiebel think?”

  Augusta was not sure what to make of his condition but did not want him to risk getting up. “Max can take a message,” she offered.

  Franz
sank back into his pillow and closed his eyes. “Very well.”

  “Franz?”

  “What?”

  “Your stutter’s gone.”

  His eyes opened. “N-no! It can’t be. How‌—‌?”

  “Don’t think about it. Just speak. Did Dr. Mesmer cure it?”

  He frowned. “I don’t know. Perhaps. B-but it may c-come back.”

  “Never mind. Rest now. I’ll send Max to Dr. Stiebel.”

  But when Augusta got downstairs, Max had not arrived yet, and she sent Elsbeth with the message. Then she made breakfast for her mother, her ailing brother, Max, Elsbeth, and herself. She never found time to eat because she had to urge some white bread soaked in warm milk and sweetened with honey on her brother, in hopes that it would serve as well as veal broth. Franz was irritable and uncooperative. He also refused to talk. She was still in the midst of begging him to eat a little more, when her mother came in to fuss over her son.

  Augusta went back to the kitchen to make a list for the day’s marketing. She had no peace for the rest of the morning. Franz slept or dozed, but her mother came to argue about the marketing and to complain that Max had promised to fetch her new hoop petticoat.

  Where was Max? It was not like him not to show up. Augusta, her head full of the attack on her brother, began to fear for Max. She was up to her elbows in soapy water, washing the breakfast dishes while reasoning with her mother, when a pounding on the door sent her rushing to open it. Two uniformed gendarmes stood on the steps.

  The older touched his cocked hat. “Sergeant Steiner, miss. And Corporal Radl.” The Corporal stood at attention. “We got a report of a gentleman of this household having been attacked last night, miss,” the sergeant rasped. “Can you confirm the matter?”

  “Yes,” said Augusta, wiping her hands on her apron. “My brother was indeed cruelly beaten on his way home.”

  “Ah,” said the sergeant. “Von Langsdorff’s the name? It’s the right place then. We must have a word with the gentleman, miss.”