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

by Forrest Aguirre

  The choked hallway leads to a more spacious ballroom. At the head of this is an alcove. This alcove provides a shelter, of sorts, from the music and loud talking that bubbles up from the ballroom floor and its surrounding hallways. The centerpiece of the alcove, around which all else swirls, is a small, ornately carved desk. Sitting at the desk on an equally ornately carved chair, is a small man, elegantly dressed, with a steely look of determination in his eyes, as if he is forcing himself to remain focused. Pomp hasn’t yet decided if she thinks he is a good man or not, but he does catch her interest. He is obviously a man of great importance—the only one seated in this mass of people. Maybe this is the emperor? But, if it weren’t for his clothes, he would look so . . . ordinary. And how could an emperor, the ruler of the Holy Roman Empire, allow himself to yawn so openly in front of his subjects?

  His ennui wouldn’t stand out so much were it not for the parade of eccentricity that circles around the man. Courtiers like exotic animals vie for the emperor’s attention either subtly or openly in a shameless dance for approval. But still he sits, bored, looking at the carnival yet seeing right through it, looking for something else, something apparently unobtainable here, despite the glittering spectacle.

  The crowd is like a sea: in places roiling, in others calm. Pomp notes with great pleasure that each “wave” is different. She is drawn in by the strangeness of it all, like a child to a kaleidoscope.

  The first to catch her attention is a brass-helmeted man, or is it a bird? Do men ever grow wings? And how are these wings attached to the man’s back through his crisp, pressed blue uniform? It’s comical how the . . . man, she must suppose it is . . . nearly knocks another guest over with every flamboyant gesture of his hands. Maybe he does think he is a bird, the way he flaps his arms around as he squawks words. The medals on his chest rattle and clink as he gesticulates, mimicking an imaginary sword fight. Pomp worries that he might absentmindedly draw the saber that hangs so dangerously from his belt and accidentally kill a guest as he tells his story. That is, if he doesn’t accidentally kill someone with the pair of wings jutting from his back first.

  “Ah, the Prussian pride! Yes, I am all too familiar with it. A Prussian officer would rather die than submit, which might seem admirable to some, imprudent to others. I know of what I speak! It wasn’t many years ago. But I cannot give exact details as to dates and places, as I wish to prevent any embarrassment to the men who were my commanding officers at the time, though they are well-known hussars.”

  The man has a strange accent. Of course! This bird man is one of the famed Polish hussars. How exciting! She has heard of them and their bravery, how they seem to fly while charging into battle on horseback, like angels of death. But she has never seen one in person, until now.

  “It would not do well for my own command if my men were to find out the circumstances surrounding the incident, for I was, admittedly, on a bit of a side venture.”

  He and his audience laugh. Pomp laughs too, not at the lame joke, but at the utter ridiculousness of the man. He is very tall and slender, with a hooked nose that only strengthens the impression, together with the wings on his back, of a vulture.

  “We camped very close to the Prussians, at the opposite end of the valley. I suppose we could have engaged them there, but I was keen to save my men the bother of having to fight in the cold of winter without an adequate supply of wine. Besides, there was little cover, and casualties would be high on both sides. So I sent a missive to another junior commander there, challenging him to a duel. Whoever lost would, of course, arrange a retreat, while the victor would take the valley. Both I and my Prussian opponent knew, contrary to the thoughts of our so-called superiors, that the valley was of little consequence. But I knew that he wouldn’t turn down the opportunity for a good duel. Besides, there was the matter of his sister and myself when I attended university at Leipzig, but that is another matter, entirely.”

  Again the crowd and Pomp laugh for different reasons.

  “So we arranged to secretly meet: myself and the Prussian, each with a second and a doctor. I chose the time and location: sunrise over the westernmost hill, and he chose the weapons: sabers. I was delighted with his choice.”

  The hussar pats the hilt of his saber as if it is his favorite dog.

  “Of course, he chose sabers over a thrusting weapon because of the sheer lethality of it. Prussians would rather die dueling than suffer the shame of a mere wounding.” He shakes his head, then looks off into the distance, remembering. “It was a ferocious fight. He was an excellent swordsman, but I prevailed, scoring him across the left cheek. His doctor bandaged the wound, and I thought we had settled the matter when he again demanded satisfaction. So I satisfied him with another score across the opposite cheek. This was attended to by his doctor, but the stubborn Prussian wanted more. Of course, he was already fatigued from the two wounds, not to mention being distracted by the bulky bandages under his eyes. Yet he persisted. So I did, too, obliging his desires for another wound. I opened a gash across his forehead that would show in the mirror till his dying day, once the blood was washed out of his eyes. This merely elicited a laugh from him and the comment ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to kill me to finish this,’ after which he set on me again, knocking his own doctor to the ground. He swung blindly, blood pouring into his eyes. It was ludicrous! He almost hit his own second! The companion had to put up his own sword to avoid being hit by his own man! The Prussian, thinking he had found me, swung wildly, arcing circles in the Hungarian manner. He almost succeeded in hitting everyone but me! It was silly, pitiful, really. But I am a gracious foe. I had no desire to fulfill his death wish, so I, rather inconveniently for him, stabbed through his sword arm. His second, who was also the man’s sergeant, interceded on his now-unconscious superior’s behalf, saying he would honor the agreement and withdraw his troops.”

  The crowd laughs and applauds. Pomp wonders at their collective grim sense of humor. Should nobles joke about such serious matters? It is, she admits, difficult not to laugh at such an outrageous man as the Hussar.

  Pomp turns to see Viktor engaged in a conversation with an old man whose face hasn’t shed its crust in a long, long time. A scowl seems to be permanently engraved on his face. Graf Von Edelweir seems warm and friendly in comparison.

  “You see,” says Viktor, whose skull-emblazoned-fez rests on one arm, the other hand busied with a glass of wine. “There is little, topographically speaking, that would keep Prussia from stabbing through your state toward Vienna, which will be its main target.”

  “Saxony is small, but not weak,” the scowling one says with hardly a movement of his taut facial muscles.

  “No one doubts the bravery of Saxony’s armies. Your men have been tried and battlefield tested. But there are only so many of you. It’s only a matter of time before a mobilized Prussian army outflanks you. We have no desire to upstage your valiant men. We sense that your needs and our needs are mutual. We only wish to help.”

  The man snorts, scoffing, then smiles. It’s the first time Pomp has seen him smile. It isn’t a pleasant smile.

  “Of course it benefits you to ally with us. We would be your first line of defense.”

  “Defense,” Viktor says, “is most definitely not our interest.”

  The man’s wicked smile grows even wider. His shoulders relax. He cocks his head back and looks intently into the graf’s eyes.

  “Now you’ve got my attention.”

  Pomp’s attention shifts elsewhere, to a shifty-looking woman on the outskirts of conversation.

  She is dark-haired, unhealthily thin, and not particularly attractive despite the abundance of makeup she uses to cover her sickly appearance: large red lips stand out in contrast against her thin, pale, skeletal face. She wears a burgundy dress that would have been the height of trendy fashion two decades ago and shows too much, unless the onlooker prefers to see the sternum bone between her breasts. She holds a metal stick to which is attached a pair of spectac
les, which she uses as a sort of masque, though the clear lenses do nothing to hide her peeping eyes.

  Pomp alights atop the woman’s hair. The woman pauses when she feels the added weight, then continues stalking. She goes from group to group, vacillating between attempts to interject herself into the conversation and recoiling from the groups who are having them. The reactions to her hesitant intrusions and withdrawals are all the same: after a brief interruption on the part of those conversing, the subject changes, or the speakers shift their bodies to present their backs to the intruder. At this point, the woman backs out with a sneer, then quickly regains her smile as she spies another destination nearby.

  Pomp watches this strange behavior, until, at last, she is so bored with the woman’s actions and the conversants’ predictable reactions that she abandons the glasses and alights on the wig of an old man engaged in a conversation with two other elderly men. They are all three intently listening to one another, as if taking mental notes for later study or reference.

  The first, a man of medium build with a face that, while not thin, seems to vertically stretch, speaks in a high voice that sounds far younger than his wrinkled skin and gray hairs indicate.

  “Ghosts,” he says to the other two, “are clearly the spirits of the departed. The scriptures are clear on the matter, and if you take any time to interview those who have recently lost a family member, they will tell you that, in their hearts, they know this to be true.”

  “I must disagree,” says another, a man so short that he borders on dwarfism. “First of all, the scriptures are themselves ghosts of a bygone era. And the emotional testimonies of those whose spiritual encounter hinges upon the loss of a loved one are the product of grief-stricken delusion, despite their sentimental sincerity.”

  The third, a bushy-eyebrowed fellow of similarly diminutive stature, looks at one, then the other with large owlish eyes, his head swiveling from side to side like the wizened bird. “I suppose it is a matter of faith in the unseen versus evidence of the seen,” he says, acting as intermediary.

  “But faith,” says the long-faced one, “by its very definition implies the unseeable—that which does not appear in the visible realm.”

  “Which makes it so much the weaker argument against reason,” the dwarfish one says. “Reason is based on the evidence of the seen, therefore faith, not being demonstrable by means of measurable perception, might just as well be insanity.”

  “No doubt,” the owl-eyed one says, “ghostly visitations are often mated with stories of wild fancy.”

  “And no doubt,” the long-faced one says defensively, “the human mind, when exposed to a glimpse of the divine, cannot contain nor explain the glories beheld by the spiritual eyes.”

  The intermediary turns to him. “Indeed. No man can behold the glory of God and remain in the flesh. This is a given tenant of religious dogma.”

  “Then how came Moses to speak with God face-to-face?” the dwarfish one asks.

  “The Lord spoke unto Moses face-to-face,” his opponent says.

  “It is the same,” the short one says.

  “It appears so,” says the owl-eyed man.

  “Besides,” continues the short one, “I have already stated that your book is outmoded.”

  “But God’s word is for all times.”

  “Poppycock!”

  “You would argue with God?”

  “Yes, if I could see him!”

  “You don’t have enough faith to see Him!”

  “And you do?”

  “Admittedly, no.”

  “Then how can you prove that he and your ghosts exist?”

  “How can you prove that they do not?”

  “I can’t see them.”

  “Maybe because they aren’t here right now. Come to think of it, you’d have to be able to see everywhere at once to prove that they don’t exist. And if you could be all places at all times and see everything simultaneously, would that not make you God? You cannot prove there is no God without being God yourself.”

  After a short silence, the owl-eyed intermediary says “It seems—I hate to admit it, but it must be true—that there is no way to know if we know what we think we know, whether our knowledge is based on faith or reason.”

  “Blasphemous,” says one.

  “Preposterous,” says the other.

  All three stand in stone-faced silence, staring at the floor.

  Pomp moves on.

  She finds herself hovering between a pair of twins, identical save for their dress. One wears a navy blue jacket, the other a dark brown overcoat. Otherwise, they are the same in appearance and mannerisms. Curiously, neither looks the other in the eye, though they seem to speak only to one another. They turn their eyes from side to side and peer over their own and the other’s shoulder, careful to avoid catching the other’s gaze. Their faces are both twisted in sneers, never disappearing, only waxing and waning like a pair of snobby moons orbiting a focus of derision for the rest of the world’s inhabitants.

  “Ugh, that dress!” says one.

  “How gaudy!” the other.

  Back and forth, forth and back, but never directly, they go. Their heads are on swivels, eyes and ears always alert for weakness. Maybe this is why they never look at each other, Pomp thinks. If one sees the other, he sees himself, and if all one looks for is weakness, then the observer will implode with self-loathing. So while each is aware of the mirror in front of him, neither dares to look into it.

  Rather, their co-gazes lock on one woman whom they are unwilling or unable to insult. Their heads turn in unison, faces dumbstruck, as she passes. The woman playfully runs her finger along the waist of the nearest, causing him to involuntarily look up at his companion, who returns the gaze. Their faces twist in mutual disgust as they recoil from one another.

  Pomp doesn’t wait to see if the planets collide. She is already following the woman.

  The woman is, by head-turning consensus, the most beautiful person in the room. She is fully aware of the fact and does nothing to conceal her knowledge of this, to the delight of young men and the disapproval of elderly women.

  Jealous old women, lustful young men, Pomp thinks, and a coquette to lead them all.

  And lead them on, she does. Behind her is a short, older gentleman with as much hair in his mustache as on his balding head.

  “My dear—oh, dear,” he says in a barely-audible voice, as if trying to secretly plead with her in the midst of the vast crowd. She glides through the crowd, going wherever she wants to, batting her eyes and smiling at every man she walks past. He follows, jostling to keep up with her as the wake behind her collapses in on itself with sudden admirers and new enemies. She moves through the crowd like a water snake crossing a river—lithe, confident, flowing, and dangerous.

  Her fiery red hair is bundled with white silk ribbons and pierced by pearl-pommeled hairpins. Abundant white makeup gives her face a porcelain luster but takes nothing away from her sharp, elfin features. In fact, her green eyes stand out even more because of the cosmetics—two sparkling emeralds that flash in the chandelier light. Her smile is broad but unforced, quite natural. Pomp thinks that the woman might be a good woman, except for the way she persistently ignores the man who appears to be her husband, favoring the adoration of strangers over domestic faithfulness. This is confusing to Pomp, who watches as the flirtatious woman reaches out with bejeweled fingers to straighten the collar of the Polish hussar, whose ardor is obviously aroused by the forward gesture. Pomp lands on top of one of the hussar’s wings, her curiosity piqued.

  “Dear,” says the man who must be her husband as he puts his hand on her arm. “We must be going. Our children . . .”

  The woman shoots him a scalding sidelong glance that almost instantaneously switches back to a smile as she turns her gaze again to the hussar.

  She speaks in a low voice that only she, her husband, the hussar, and Pomp can hear. “The children, she says sweetly, “are in good hands. The nanny will
watch over them . . . for the night.” She continues to stare into the hussar’s eyes.

  He is obviously uncomfortable with the situation, but his vanity prevents him from refusing her advances.

  She turns to her husband. “Of course, you are free to go be with the children yourself, if you wish.”

  She turns back to the hussar. “As for me, I have plans for the evening.”

  The husband shrinks away, deflated, spurned.

  And Pomp, infuriated by her sense of justice, has been patient long enough.

  She has discovered how the hussar’s wings work and puts her might into flapping the feathered contraptions, much to the surprise and confusion of the hussar, who lifts his arms and peers underneath to see who is pulling this prank—and his wings. Seeing that no one is touching him, indeed a clearing has appeared around him, he begins to panic, turning this way and that, nearly knocking over all who are within reach of his wings, including the flirtatious woman. She begins laughing at the ridiculousness of it all until her hair pins fall out, pulled loose by unseen hands. (Pomp has to press her feet against the woman’s head to gain the needed leverage.)

  Those down the hall think that another group of musicians has started up until it becomes apparent that the screeches are not those of a violin. The emperor, amused at the ruckus, stands up and smiles when he sees the scene. Graf Von Edelweir places himself between the emperor and the action, calling two of his guards to protect his liege from whatever witchery this is.

  And no one can argue that it isn’t sorcery. The woman’s hair ties itself in knots around her pretty face. The hussar’s wings detach and fall to the ground with a clunk. The woman falls backward into a crowd of her erstwhile admirers. The hussar’s pants come undone and drop to the man’s ankles.