Heraclix and Pomp: A Novel of the Fabricated and the Fey (24 page)

Heraclix turned around to find the source of the screaming behind him. There were two more Cossacks, no doubt the ones who were hunting him through the barley fields earlier. But they had a third person with them, namely a young Turk of perhaps sixteen years, who clung to the back of one of the men, one arm hooked around the man’s neck. The other arm rose and fell rapidly, repeatedly plunging a curved Ottoman dagger in and out of the man’s back and shoulder. This, then, was one of the sources of screaming, the man screaming in agony, the youth screaming a battle cry.

The Cossack’s companion swung his saber, hoping to hack the youth off of his comrade’s back but, instead, slashed his friend’s bowels open. Realizing what he had just done, he ran off down
the road, then into the grass, leaving the other man to die there on the road.

Heraclix looked down to where the Turk had been, but he was gone. Another scream rang out from behind the wagons, so Heraclix ran between them to the other side to render what aid he might.

As he cleared the wagons, he saw the half-naked Turk taking a young woman into his arms, or, rather, his arm. The other arm held a saber, taken, no doubt, from the Cossack he had killed. The bloodied saber, along with a pair of dead, de-pantsed Cossacks, gave evidence to the fact that the Russians were after more than mere plunder. The girl’s torn dress, along with the similarly torn dress of her mother, who angrily pounded the dead bodies with her fists, provided further evidence of the Cossacks’ ill intent.

“You are safe now,” the Turk reassured the girl.

“You are safe now!” a voice called out from down the road.

The boy who had ridden and stabbed the back of the Cossack rounded the corner, the bloodied dagger still in his hand. He was panting from the fight.

“You are safe!” he said, exultantly. Then, seeing the couple in each other’s arms, his countenance fell, along with the dagger, which dropped from his grasp.

“You have done well, Al’ghul,” the Turkoman said to the boy. “You have killed half a man in defense of Fuskana here,” he looked into the girl’s eyes and smiled. “I have killed three. You are catching up!” Al’ghul disappeared, skulking off to the other side of the caravan.

A trio of elderly men emerged from the wagons, two of them tottering over to pull the older woman away from the body she was desecrating. The third walked briskly toward Heraclix, then stopped as he beheld the giant’s face. The man breathed in through his nose and held his breath, composing himself for the conversation with the unsightly Heraclix.

“You have saved us this day. I have witnessed it, Allah be praised! Now, how can we reward you, large one?”

The man wore the white robes of the Hajj, a rarity here. His sharp, pointed beard, along with his dark eyes, atop a corpulent frame, gave him a sinister appearance, but his voice bespoke
kindness. “We have much to give you as a gesture of our thanks, brass pots, silk, spices, incense . . .”

Heraclix held his hand up then, realizing it was covered in blood, he wiped it on his cloak. The merchant’s smile faded in a brief moment of hesitation, as if he regretted having approached the stranger so openly, then the smile returned as quickly as it had left.

“I don’t want your goods,” Heraclix said in German-accented Turkish. “Only some companionship.”

The merchant looked at the couple. The girl showed fear in her eyes, then averted her gaze from the elder and Heraclix. The young man had fire in his eyes as he placed himself between Heraclix and the girl. Heraclix understood almost immediately that there had been a misunderstanding.

“Not that kind of companionship. I only seek to share a part of my journey east.”

“East!” the merchant said loudly. “Allah is smiling on you, friend. That is exactly where we are headed! To Istanbul!”

The girl gave a puzzled gasp.

The merchant shot her a harsh glance and cleared his throat. She immediately became silent.

Heraclix noticed that the wagons were facing northwest.

“I don’t want to be any trouble . . .” Heraclix began. He stopped himself suddenly, realizing that Istanbul was the city to the east that he sought.

“No trouble!” the merchant said. “None at all. We will be heading to Istanbul starting tomorrow.” The merchant gave the couple a suppressing stare, then called the others together. “Tonight we share. But first, we mourn. Kaleel,” the merchant said to the young man who had his arm around the girl, “you and Al’ghul will bury your cousin there, in the field. It will be known as Hamad’s Meadow.” The young man and the boy nodded, then hurried off. The girl tended to her distraught female companion, and the merchant wheeled around and walked off on other business, leaving Heraclix alone in the midst of the people.

Heraclix observed, listened, eavesdropped, even, and learned much in the process. He was careful not to be found alone with any one member of the party, as they all grew nervous when it seemed they might be alone with the giant, all except the youngest,
Al’ghul, the teen who felled one of the Cossacks. Al’ghul was a loner. Heraclix felt that the boy was only loosely connected with the rest of the group.

Al’ghul’s eldest brother, Hamad, had been killed trying to defend the caravan from the raiders. Kaleel, the other young man whose valor and strength Heraclix found commendable, was a cousin to Al’ghul and the deceased Hamad.

The object of Kaleel’s affections (and those of Al’ghul, Heraclix suspected from the younger’s body language), Fuskana, was somewhere in age between Al’ghul and Kaleel. She was attractive and innocent. Heraclix didn’t wonder that some jealousies between the two cousins might be provoked over her.

The girl’s mother, Chandra, was wed to one of the three merchants, namely Hezrah, while the other two old tradesmen, Jubal and Mehmet, were distant cousins of the wedded pair, through Hezrah. It was unclear to Heraclix how Al’ghul or Kaleel were related, if at all, to the rest. Perhaps, he thought, he would pursue the question over dinner, which Jubal had informed him would happen after they had properly buried Hamad.

That night, after hours of exaggerated, if heartfelt, weeping, the women, along with Al’ghul, prepared a dinner of spiced porridge and rabbit. Heraclix, who neither felt hunger nor had the physical need for food, still ate as a courtesy to his hosts. His taste buds were apparently still functional. He particularly enjoyed a sort of hot spiced cider or tea. He had felt a touch of autumn on the wind coming down from the mountains to the south, and the drink warmed his insides.

Conversation flowed freely around the fire, though the travelers sat across the fire from Heraclix. His appearance obviously discomfited them, but they never remarked rudely or showed open contempt. They were the hosts, and Heraclix was their guest, no matter how ugly he was.

Jubal, a consumate storyteller, related how the little caravan was traveling from Sofia to Pest to sell their wares when they were set upon by the Russian Cossacks. Hamad and Kaleel had fought well, but were outnumbered. Al’ghul had “slunk off to hide, as a coward, until he could backstab one of the highwaymen and claim victory,” Jubal said with disdain.

Al’ghul retreated from the fire, glowering at the others, especially his cousin. But Kaleel was occupied with staring into the eyes of the soft and genteel Fuskana, who seemed happy to return Kaleel’s attentions.

After the boy had departed, Jubal spoke in a low voice. “‘Al’ghul’ means ‘the ghoul’ or ‘the demon.’ It is, of course, not the boy’s given name. We, the older ones, dare not tell him his true name. Nor does he know that Kaleel,” he spoke quietly enough that the fawning young man wouldn’t be distracted from the girl, “is not, in truth, his cousin”.

“And was Hamad his brother?”

“Indeed, he was. It was Hamad, in fact, who nicknamed the boy ‘Al’ghul’ not long after their mother died in Erdel at the hands of a band of raiders. The younger boy was only three years old at the time, but the trauma took hold. He wasn’t like other children, after the things he had seen. And he’s still not like other children. He’s given to outrageous fits of jealous rage. I don’t know what he recalls of his parents, but it’s apparent that the memories—whether of loss or otherwise—have left him scarred for life. But, though he is an orphan, he must learn to be a man, and this we . . . myself, Hezrah, and Mehmet, vowed to teach him when we found the orphaned boys on our travels. We had done well with Hamad. For Al’ghul, I hold less hope.”

“The boy is dangerous, headstrong,” said Hezrah.

“Still, we vowed to teach him,” Mehmet said.

“You are to be commended,” Heraclix said.

“We are to go to sleep,” Jubal said. “It is late and tomorrow we head back past Sofia to Istanbul.”

The men retired to their wagons, careful to keep Kaleel and Fuskana separated.

Heraclix lay by the dying fire, staring up at the stars. He knew that at some point in the past he had memorized all the constellations, the transits of the planets, the specific pulsations of the stars. Now, though, he couldn’t recall any of the specifics nor, most importantly, why he had taken such an interest in them before his death and reanimation. It was more than a mere pleasure in their twinkling mystery or a quaint hint of nostalgia. No, he had
known the stars, mapped their meanderings, and there was some deep purpose to it all, an intent that he couldn’t explicitly state, but that held as its ultimate goal some sort of grim power and arcane knowledge.

Heraclix was so consumed by his brooding puzzlement that he failed to realize that he was being watched until Al’ghul appeared, like a wolf, on the edge of the dying firelight. The embers cast a red glow upon the boy, giving him the appearance of his namesake.

“Aren’t you up a little late?” Heraclix asked.

“That’s what Jubal and Kaleel would say,” the boy said.

“You are lucky to have Kaleel with you,” Heraclix said.

“Lucky? He is a curse.”

“He seems very brave to me,” Heraclix said.

“
I
am brave!” Al’ghul said. “I killed one of the bandits myself!”

“No one is doubting your bravery, young one.”

“Jubal doubts it.”

“Jubal wants what is best for you.”

“He withholds what is best for me, just as he withheld it from Hamad.”

“And what would that be?” Heraclix asked.

The boy hesitated a moment before answering.

“That which Kaleel has, that which he holds, without fear, without shame, in the presence of Jubal and the others.”

Heraclix thought about this for a moment, then stifled a laugh only with great difficulty. Jubal’s assessment of the boy had been right on.

“So, this is about Fuskana?”

“This is about
nothing
!” the boy said sulkily, “this conversation is over!” And with that, Al’ghul disappeared into the night.

Heraclix looked up at the star that shared the boy’s name. He wondered if it was fiery youth that kindled Algol’s flaming light. Had jealousy ever fueled his own actions in his lifetime, the life before this one? He wondered all night, to the turning of the starry sky and the sound of barley in the breeze, until the sun drove away all other pretenders, blinding the heavens and burning them all away, banishing them to outer darkness.

The men arose and hooked the horses up to the wagons. Hezrah and Kaleel guided the first, Jubal piloted the second with Heraclix
as his bench-side passenger, while Mehmet and Al’ghul steered the last wagon. Fuskana and her mother must have been within the wagons, but Heraclix wasn’t sure which one, or even if the mother and daughter shared the same carriage. It seemed that the men were very careful to hide the women while traveling. Heraclix could see why.

As the monotony of the grasslands stretched out in all directions, save that of the mountains on the horizon ahead of them, Heraclix took surreptitious glances behind him, watching as Mehmet lectured young Al’ghul. The old man pointed to the heavens and expanded his arms wide, as if to encompass the hemisphere of the sky. The boy seemed genuinely interested, even cracking an occasional smile at the old man’s comments.

“Mehmet and Al’ghul seem to enjoy a good relationship,” Heraclix remarked to Jubal.

“Mehmet was also an orphan, for a time, until my father took him in.”

“Then the two have much in common.”

“In terms of their familial experience, yes,” Jubal clarified, “but there the similarity ends, mostly.”

“Mostly?”

“Well,” Jubal said with a hesitancy that indicated that he was weighing whether or not to divulge a sensitive piece of information, “Mehmet and Al’ghul do both tend more toward the morose and pessimistic,” he said, with some reluctance. “But they are very different in other ways. Mehmet is exceedingly intelligent and well-read on a number of subjects, whereas Al’ghul is a bit dull. Ambition is a word that the boy wouldn’t understand if Socrates himself explained it to him, while Mehmet has his sights set high. Of course, this is reflected in a third difference: Mehmet is strictly disciplined, while Al’ghul is rather lazy.”