Heraclix and Pomp: A Novel of the Fabricated and the Fey (31 page)

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.

The woman swats at her own dress, screaming about gremlins tickling her ribs and armpits and laughing hysterically. The hussar’s medals fly off his chest and out into the crowd. He cries out. She cries out.

The husband rushes to her side to assist his wife. She stops suddenly, as if struck by a thunderbolt of realization. She looks at her husband through the knots in her hair, then tackles him to the ground, showering him with lustful kisses, caresses, and other maneuvers not to be detailed among polite company or around children.

The couple is quickly shepherded out, while the hussar stands there in a daze, his pantaloons still about his ankles.

Pomp hovers in the air above the scene, bow in hand, a satisfied smile on her face. Her quiver is one arrow lighter. She thinks, “It was worth it!”

Then she finds herself choking in a cloud of wig powder, which has suddenly filled the air around her. The imperial guards usher the emperor out and an even more widespread panic ensues.

“Ghost!” some yell.

“A demon!” shout others.

“Gremlin!” scream a few.

She realizes, in the mayhem, that all eyes are now on her, she who is invisible . . . save for the white powder that now coats her, betraying her form to the crowd. Her cover is blown, she is exposed.

But who could know she was there? Who would have guessed how to find her? Only one . . . Mowler! But disguised as . . . who?

Pomp flies as high as the ceiling will allow, then scans the crowd. She looks for a wrathful glimmer in the eyes, an evil smile—any indicator of Mowler-behind-the-mask. But all of the people are overflowing with fury, shouting, jumping up to snatch at the air beneath her, throwing whatever object is at hand.

All, that is, save for one, whom she catches coming up from a kneeling to a standing position with a large powder puff in his hand. He looks at her with eyes full of curiosity—a long, long stare, as if he is studying her. That one is none other than Major Felix Von Graeb.

C
HAPTER
21

T
he arterial roads leading to the heart of Istanbul were clogged with a mass of humanity that only reluctantly gave way to Heraclix, Al’ghul, and the officer. The officer, who formally introduced himself as Agha Beyruit Al Mahdr, worked the crowd with his riding crop and horse, clearing a path for Heraclix and Al’ghul by stroke and hoof.

“Make way for an officer of the Sultan!” he ordered.

Those in the way grudgingly obliged, eyes ablaze with hatred for the gargantuan foreigner in their midst. A couple barked out insults, but were soon silenced when they saw the face of the man under the cowl. The looks of anger transformed into faces wrung with disgust. Heraclix understood then that he would not have made it thus far were it not for Mehmet’s training of Al’ghul. He silently thanked whatever gods of irony might rule over the earth, if any.

Beyond the layers of pedestrians, the streets were encrusted like barnacles on a long-moored ship with shop atop shop selling bright bolts of indigo, orange, and blood red cloth; pungent spices; polished copper pots that reflected amber sunlight; and brightly feathered and furred animals in wicker cages. Above these were balconies from which woman beat intricately woven carpets or dumped pans of water down onto the eaves of the shops below. Between buildings, down long alleyways, Heraclix thought he could see glimpses of the ocean, like little blue swatches of cloth
that were snatched away by the jealous city.

In time they turned off into one of those alleys and rode down it long enough for Heraclix to see the Sea of Marmara, as if through a window. He could smell the clean scent of the sea as the salt air coursed up in tendrils through the alleys from the dockside wharfs. He was disappointed when Al Mahdr turned into an alley that ran parallel to the shore, again allowing Heraclix only intermittent peeps at the waves.

The buildings grew taller and more imposing even as the streets became more and more narrow. Soon they had no choice but to travel single file—Agha Al Mahdr at the front, then Al’ghul, with Heraclix taking up the rear. Just when Heraclix wondered if his legs might become pinched and wedged between the walls and the sides of his horse, the tightly pressing buildings gave way to a circular courtyard in the midst of which stood a single white-plastered, rectangular building, five stories high and windowless, with a single, small wooden door that he knew he would have to stoop, if not crawl, to pass. There was nothing in the courtyard: no children, no chickens, not even a fly buzzed in the empty air, which suited Heraclix just fine. He had seen enough of flies.