Free Heraclix and Pomp: A Novel of the Fabricated and the Fey by Forrest Aguirre Page B

found, dulled the pain, soothed the hurt a little. This furthered the dream-state. I was muddled and lost.”
    “And then, one night, clarity came to me in a flash. I remembered: mother didn’t know how to write. She couldn’t have written that note. It was as if a lantern had been lit in my mind. My mother had not hung herself, she had been hung!”
    “Then,” a mystical tone entered Nicklaus’s voice, “then I heard her speak.”
    Heraclix’s discomfort was visible. Logic told him that Nicklaus’s hearing a voice from the dead was no stranger than his own undead rebirth, yet logic also told him that he was listening to the ramblings of a drunken, emotionally broken man.
    “I looked up there,” Nicklaus pointed, again, to the rafters, “and there she was, hanging by a noose like the day I found her. But she was alive and smiling and she spoke to me!” He giggled, sending shivers up Heraclix’s spine.
    “She told me that I was right, that the villagers had killed her while I was away, that they were afraid of the Serb and our business with him. So they killed her and forged the note to convince me that she had hung herself.”
    “She said she was happy now, beyond the veil, sharing eternity with others who had been innocent victims of violence and misunderstanding. She looked so peaceful, just hanging there, smiling down at me. She said she would visit, from time to time. And she has, she has. She will come to me in the night sometimes, and we will talk of old times and the friends she is meeting there.”
    He paused, and the manic smile slipped into a satisfied grin. He nodded his head, approvingly.
    “I am so very glad that she is happy. That’s all I ever wanted.”
    He stared at the floor.
    Heraclix and Pomp stared at each other.
    After a long moment of silence, Heraclix cleared his throat and spoke.
    “Nicklaus, we don’t want to dredge up old . . . problems, but we are here to gather some information.”
    The smile instantly dropped from Nicklaus’s face, and he was the dour, depressed-looking man they had conversed with earlier. Pomp was confused and repulsed by the change.
    “Yes?” he said in a businesslike tone.
    “We are curious to find this Serb, this Vladimir Porchenskivik. You mentioned that he lives not far from here. Where exactly does he live?”
    “Ten miles into the mountains, up this same path.”
    “Very good. How will we know when we have found his home?”
    “You will know, trust me,” the wicked hint of a smile slipped at the corner of his mouth.
    “One more question before we go: what route did you take and where exactly in Vienna did you take the hand?”
    “Vienna? I didn’t take the hand to Vienna. I took it to Prague.”
    “Prague?” The emphasis with which Heraclix said the word betrayed his surprise.
    Nicklaus nodded. “To a man, a mystic or philosopher or sorcerer of some type. I don’t remember exactly where, and I already told you I never knew the man’s name. His place was somewhere near the old castle, I think.”
    Heraclix was obviously intrigued. “And what did this man look like?”
    Nicklaus seemed suddenly sobered. “Why, he could have been your cousin, your brother. Could have been you yourself.”
    “Me?” Heraclix was now thoroughly confused, as was Pomp.
    “The resemblance is strong, that’s all.”
    Heraclix squinted an eye. “That’s not really all, is it?”
    Nicklaus shrank back.
    “I’m not going to hurt you,” Heraclix said.
    “And I have no wish to hurt you,” Nicklaus said. “But since you ask,” he paused, concentrating to dredge up a memory, “the mystic in Prague, he resembled you in the face. Though he was not as ugly, and infinitely more sad. This is all I remember.”
    “Very well,” Heraclix said. He slowly stood up and offered a pair of gold coins to Nicklaus.
    The drunk, crazy man waved his hand, indicating that he wanted no part of the money. “I don’t need your money. If anything, please give it to Herr