In Death,
Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart
CODA
Summer, 1794
Boston, Massachusetts
My life is different now. No longer the apprentice. No longer in the shadow of Mozart, I have embarked upon my own Requiem.
The day of Mozart’s passing, I composed myself and directed the orchestra that evening in his absence. It was difficult, but I was able to complete the performance as a tribute to my mentor... my friend. I tried not to look towards the royal family during the performance, but I caught the eye of Marie Antoinette a few times. In spite of the tension in the room between the monarchy and the representatives of the Legislative Assembly, it seemed at times as if the only two in the room were Marie and the spirit of Wolfgang.
I never talked to the queen again.
Within days after the concert, I boarded a ship for England, and then secured passage to America. After reading his words, I knew there would be no way for me to make my own legacy in Europe under the weight of Mozart’s shadow. The man had inspired me in a multitude of ways. After a few weeks at sea, I was able to set foot on land in Boston, where I was determined to compose music for the fledgling nation, as well as for myself.
Mozart had been given a funeral worthy of a king, which was more than I could say for Louis and his wife. Less a month after the concert, the Tuileries Palace was raided. The queen and her family were then made full-fledged prisoners in Paris. By January of 1793, the king had been executed. Nine months later, Marie Antoinette met the same fate at the blade of the guillotine.
America was a breath of fresh air. Devoid of the relics of monarchy and nobility, the new country on the other side of the Atlantic was exhilarating and exciting. The music here, like the people, was raw and coarse. They did not have the refined taste that the courts in Vienna thrived on, but in a way, that was a relief. I had lived with the brilliance and burden of Mozart and I longed for a life apart from the trappings of the old world.
The Americans had already discovered what the French struggled to find. The idea of independence and democracy had come easier for those in the New World—they didn’t have to behead their king to be rid of him. The pain and suffering I’d seen on the streets of Paris was here as well, but it was tempered. Hope could be seen in this new Constitution the American people talked about, and a new dawn provided a bold new life for the people of this land.
And those people—my people now—needed something I was ready to help give, an anthem.
In death, Mozart had given me my freedom, and had given me a chance. A chance to be significant.
A Word from Will Swardstrom
Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart was six years old when he and his family performed for the Austrian Royal Family in Vienna. He did impress them all, including the Empress Maria Theresa as well as her daughter, then Maria Antonia—the future Maria Antoinette, the queen of France as the bride of Louis XVI. On that day, he did kiss her and proposed. A cute story: a six year old musical prodigy and an Austrian princess in a confirmed case of puppy love.
That was what I used as the inspiration for my story. Mozart went on to become perhaps the greatest musician the world has ever known and Marie Antoinette became the queen at the heart of the early controversy in the genesis of the French Revolution.
In our timeline, Mozart passed away December 5, 1791 as he was in the midst of composing his Requiem. There is no evidence he ever gave Marie Antoinette a second thought.
Marie Antoinette’s brother Leopold was the emperor of Austria during the beginnings of the revolution in France, but did pass away unexpectedly in early 1792. His son, Francis, took over and went to war with France to challenge the French over their threat to monarchy in Europe. Marie Antoinette became a victim of the guillotine during the French Revolution. Louix XVI died first in January 1793 and she followed suit on October 16, 1793.
Franz Xaver Süssmayr was a real person and was perhaps the closest thing Mozart had to an assistant in his final years, although the legitimacy of that claim is in doubt. For the purposes of this story, he had the task of being Mozart’s confidante in those days.
Süssmayr did have a claim to fame: when Mozart died, he was commissioned by Mozart’s widow, Constance, to finish the writing of Requiem, which he did. He went on to have a fairly unremarkable career in Vienna, dying in 1803 without marrying. I like to think of him moving to America and living a life apart from the giant shadow of Mozart lingering over him. In reality, finishing Requiem was perhaps the greatest accomplishment of Süssmayr’s career—finishing the work of another man.
I also think we devote too much of the history textbooks to the men, so I gave Constance and Marie Antoinette voices that they may have lacked in their lifetime. But in studying Marie Antoinette, I found that while she is often portrayed as soft, there was an edge about her. Her German roots as an Austrian Princess is often overlooked when we just look back at that time period, but Marie Antoinette was bold and steadfast even with death staring her in the face.
Will Swardstrom is a writer and teacher living in Southern Illinois. He dabbles in many areas of speculative fiction from aliens to zombies and all points in between. His acclaimed short stories have previously been featured in three Future Chronicles titles and he has a new novel co-written with his brother Paul that will be released in early 2016. You can find more of his work at his Amazon Author Page or his blog
http://smarturl.it/w.sward
https://willswardstrom.wordpress.com/
Diablo Del Mar
by Artie Cabrera
What if Christopher Columbus hadn't been able to present the New World's riches to his Spanish benefactors, and had instead been recruited by a mysterious cult with an outlandish goal?
BLACK SWAN
LOST TO DARKNESS, the lonely Nina swung high and low amid the wreckage and six hundred dead scattered across the undulating troughs of the ocean.
“You did this to us,” Ramses slurred, infuriated as he shoved Columbus toward the exposed cargo hold. The two men swayed unsteadily as the deluge rocked the ship and long winds swept across the open deck. “You 'n’ that blighted compass of yours brought us here, and now we're all goin’ to die. Sure of that!”
Columbus shoved the sailing master back. “Has mercury seized your mind? No one could have seen this storm coming!”
Ramses went screw-eyed and pulled his matchlock pistol on Columbus. “I have the wits to throw you over the side and let you die with the rest o’ them, what say you now?”
Haralamb the carpenter scowled at both of them as he and Antonio Acosta scaled the mainmast to secure the sails. “No time fer gunplay, lads. Make haste, we have a ship to fight for!”
Antonio, first to climb, shook his fist at the sky and cackled, “Give us all you’ve got, Neptune, 'n' we’ll shove your trident up your—!”
“Bite your tongue, you damn fool, 'n' throw me some feckin’ rope!”
“Wot? I thought you had the rope!” Acosta yelled back.
“I told you to bring the rope from below! I don’t have the rope!” Haralamb looked up to shout at Sosa, who was stationed in the crow’s nest, to toss down some rope, but the storm had whisked the crow’s nest away and Sosa off with it. When he yelled down to Tovar the priest to get them rope, Tovar was gone, too, swept off the main deck and out to sea.
“Cap’n!” Doru the cabin boy hailed, kicking his way through the stream of water to get to Columbus and dodging crates and coffers as they came barreling toward him.
“Not now, Doru!” Columbus shouted over his shoulder, keeping his fingers steady at the pommel of his cutlass and a steely eye on Ramses’ hand cannon. Columbus would take Ramses’ head if he wasn’t already short on men. This wasn’t the first time the sailing master had pulled a gun on him, either. The first time, Columbus was kind enough to take only a finger for the master’s drunken revolt.
“Oi Cap’n!” Doru, shouted again, tapping his shoulder.
“I said, not—”
> Seen only through slashes of lightning, Columbus spotted a rogue wave at least three kilometers out beyond the waterspouts, swelling to the size of the great walls of Troy—Neptune’s Trident. The black crescent soared into a vertical climb, tapering off into a claw ready to strike down with all its might.
“Rogue, walking the sea!” Haralamb hailed Acosta. “Batten down 'n’ trim the sails already! I’ve eaten turtles that were faster than you!”
“Quit natterin’ me, you half-witted monkey! I’m doing the best I can!”
“Happy now, ye worthless gobshite? To the fathoms with all o’ ya!” Ramses turned the pistol on himself and pulled the trigger; the blast sent his rotund body toppling down into the aperture of the cargo hold.
“All men on deck!” Columbus shouted, and to his dismay, found most of his men gone. “Doru, where’s Salamanca?”
“Swingin’ in th’ galley, Cap’n. Give hisself the rope’s end. Said he'd rather take his own life than die curs’d on yer vessel.”
“What? No one dies on my ship without my consent. Where’s De La Cruz, Yellow Jack?”
“Hangin’ in th’ galley.”
“Then find me the Castro brothers.”
“Nay, Cap’n…the Castro brothers—”
“Bloody dogs, Doru! Are there any men presently not dead and hanging in the galley? I need all hands to secure my sails!”
“That’s what I’s been tryin’ to tell ye, Cap’n,” an exasperated Doru sighed. “The rest o’ the men have gone wayward and is throwing the swag into the sea, gold 'n' all! They say it’s curs’d by Neptune’s Trident—black spotted, they say!”
“They’re what?”
A sudden explosion rocked the deck floor. What Columbus initially thought was a thunderclap was someone below firing a cannon and ripping a hole in the stern. Columbus recognized his error as he smelled spent gunpowder. He ran to the railing to find men hurling chests through the hole and into the water. One man even pushed one of the horses through and attempted to ride it out to sea. Neither made it far before a wave struck and rolled them under. “The only ones cursing this ship are the men, Doru. Damn them. They’ll sink us all! You, down there! Stop that!”
Haralamb stopped fighting the sails and looked wide-eyed out to the ocean. “What the bloody hell is that?” He pointed seaward. “That’s no wave!”
Acosta followed his crewmate’s finger. “Devils. No, that’s a sea serpent. It’s a blasted sea serpent! I hate sea serpents!” Hand over hand, he scrambled to get down off the mast. “This is possibly the worst voyage ever.” Haralamb was not far behind as both men leapt down and joined Doru by Columbus’ side.
Doru cheered. “Belay! The good fortune of St. Elmo’s Light is upon us, lads!” He looked at the remaining crew. “The storm will soon break, 'n’ we can all finally go home!”
Columbus didn’t share young Doru’s optimism when he saw the flaming red corposants swimming up through the water like lamps behind a waterfall. The crest of a massive saucer breached the tides and continued to climb toward the clouds, blotting out the sky and leaving the Nina in shadow until it stalled over the sea like an islet made of iron and fire. Without accelerating, the disc suddenly shot off into the distance as if fired from a cannon.
Haralamb raised his eyebrows as he looked at Acosta. “That was no serpent,” he whispered. “Serpents can’t do that.”
Columbus stared into the sky, eyes fixed on the distance. “No one speaks of this when we get back, understand?” He pulled Haralamb aside. “Go down below. Discard the corpses and anyone who continues throwing gold off my ship.”
“Aye, Cap’n.”
EXILE
Calm waters and a pink-orange sunrise indicated that they had indeed weathered the storm. Columbus and the remaining few chartered back to Spain. Queen Isabelle, King Ferdinand, and committee had welcomed their arrival with fanfare at the ports after scouts reported the ship had reached Ponta del Gada. Without the goods and slaves Columbus had promised. King Ferdinand was most displeased—so angry he refused council with Columbus that afternoon and the days after.
As days passed, radicals, commoners, and children had begun murmuring and excitedly sharing the accounts of aerial mechanisms seen by Columbus’ men. “Is what they say true, what they saw in the ocean?” Queen Isabelle asked.
“I no longer am certain what to believe, Your Majesty,” Columbus admitted.
Isabelle lifted her gaze from the rose she had been admiring. Keeping Columbus in her periphery, she calmly observed their immediate surroundings. “Do you realize your men have driven the people into a clamor with their wretched fairy tales? Have they all gone mad?” she asked. The Queen was cautious of spies and asesinos employed by the Spanish Inquisition, and more so, employed by her husband, the Monarch of Aragon. When spies watched from the shadows, no one was safe under the king’s rule, not even the queen.
In the city of Castile, it was hard to tell the saints from the scoundrels, the vermin from the victims. Isabelle only trusted Columbus and Claudio, her young brother and friar, a redheaded youth with cherub cheeks and a heart of gold. He stood watch outside the courtyard, loudly preaching the word of God to oblivious townsfolk walking by while Isabelle met with Columbus.
Columbus thought back to the order he’d given his men. “Perhaps it is not true, and I do not wish to alarm the people with what they cannot see with their own eyes. It is foolish and vain of my men to poison their minds with such calamity. Forgive me, my queen.”
She turned to face him. “I believe you, Christopher. I do not mean to chastise you. I too have seen them with my own eyes,” Isabelle confessed as she gazed up at the star-speckled constellations with a saddened reverence.
Columbus considered her intently. “You have?” Even if she was only confessing to Columbus, it would certainly put her kingdom at risk should any of her detractors overhear her encouraging this sacrilege.
She watched a band of commoners enter the courtyard, laughing and carrying on as they went. She turned from them lest they recognize her. “Nevertheless, the truth does not belong to the people,” she added, returning her gaze to the rose. “What your men speak of is madness. Burning chariots in the stars, mystics in the water? For your sake, you shall not speak of this to anyone again, for it never happened—ever.”
Columbus was certain of what he and his men had seen, but he also knew what Isabelle had said was true. He would not dispute it—queens feared their kings, but kings feared their people. A king could not survive a kingdom plagued by fairy tales, especially if the fairy tales were true.
“How well do you know your men, Christopher?” the queen asked, suddenly looking restless.
“Well enough,” Columbus replied. “Why?”
“Antonio Acosta is not to be trusted; he has spoken against you. You are not safe here. You must leave.”
“Antonio Acosta? He is one of my best men. He would never betray—”
“It is done,” she said with finality. “They will come for you, and I cannot protect you. The Inquisition has deemed you a Conjurer.”
“A Conjurer?” Columbus’ voice rose. “I am no alchemist; I am no heretic. Tell me, you don’t believe—”
“I don’t.”
“Isabelle, I’ve been away too long. I can’t leave again. What does the king say?”
She stood to leave before he could see her cry. “The king has no confidence in you. It was his bidding. I’m sorry,” she said. Isabelle stood firm, a look of cold nobility already upon her face, the slightest hint of tears in her eyes. “I must go now, Christopher. Know that this is the last time we will see each other, and know that I too will suffer in your absence.”
“I won’t leave unless you come with me.”
Already shaking her head, Isabelle’s expression hardened. She would not tolerate him speaking blindly. He needed to make better use of his time now that his life was in danger. She would not be persuaded, although the look in his eyes brought forth a longing from within her
heart. She knew where she belonged. “Christopher? I…”
“Yes?”
“I…I will pray for you. Go.”
AUTO DE FE
Two evenings had passed when Columbus returned alone from his fishing trip on the Galiana River. With him, he carried a net on his back with enough Mullets to last him two more nights. Tired, hungry, and unable to walk any further, he settled on an encampment in the woodsy cauldron of La Palma for the evening. He could not rest; he needed to see Isabelle again.
She should never have asked him to leave; this was his home. His rage burned as hot as the flames in the campfire at being unlawfully cast out by the king. He decided that he would return to the castle in the morning, despite what Isabelle had told him, and demand counsel with King Ferdinand to pardon his name. Granted, the king would refuse his pardon, and attempt to kill him once he had him in his grasp, Columbus knew. What better way to ensure Columbus stayed in the city than to tell him to flee, or that he was a wanted man? A trick both the king and queen had played on Columbus one too many times before, using his pride to his own detriment. So be it; this was war. War was for men, not cowards, or men with loose tongues like Antonio Acosta. Columbus would sooner look death in the eyes than die running from snakes like the king or his corrupted servants. To the depths with all of them, Columbus spat as his thoughts raced.
“The infamous Christopher Columbus, I presume,” said a hooded woman, appearing beyond the campfire.
“What business do you have with me?” asked Columbus, sliding his fingers to the cutlass sheathed on his belt.
“You may call me Magda. I am a representative of the Order of the Dragon. Some say you have seen the cosmic traveler manifest from the sea on your voyage. Is it true?” she replied, her voice slithery with Slavic intonations. Her antiquated black robe did nothing to dispel the aura of unease she brought with her. Her eyes were set deep in dark sockets and accentuated by her cadaverously thin face. She wore a medallion with the insignia of a dragon, its tail coiled around its neck. Two robed and veiled guards stood beside her, each carrying spears on their backs and a short-sword in their hands.
Alt.History 102 (The Future Chronicles) Page 8
