John Wray - The Right Hand of Sleep

The air above the ponds was filled with fluttering bodies, oblivious to his presence in their sightless dips and circlings, curving over the water in nervous, erratic arcs, tracing ancient, encrypted patterns across its surface. For a long time Voxlauer listened to their soft, parchment-like wingbeats, sitting on the bank and searching the surface of the pond for their reflections. At times they came close enough to him that he felt or imagined the pass of their fineboned leathery wings against his face and his hair. When it grew too dark even to guess at them anymore he stood up clumsily from the bank and crossed the pilings.

A figure came up the road the next morning as Voxlauer sat on the stoop leafing through the Selections from Goethe he’d taken from the old house. Long before he could make out the features below the wicker hat brim he recognized the loose storklike gait and the deliberate, august advancement of the cane. He called out a hello as Piedernig drew even with the pilings.

— I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure yet of a house call, Professor. Would you do us the honor?

Piedernig bowed deeply. — With your permission, young Herr. With your kind and generous permission.

— Headed to the heath? said Voxlauer, leading him up to the cottage steps.

— I’ll not deny it, said Piedernig. — What’s more, I was hoping you might yourself be able to spare an hour.

— I might just. Voxlauer set the book down on the woodpile and pushed the door to the cottage closed. — I’d invite you in, Professor, but it isn’t much to look at.

— I believe it implicitly, said Piedernig. He took Voxlauer’s arm again and they crossed back to the road. They walked in silence for a number of minutes, Voxlauer adjusting his steps to Piedernig’s more stately, level stride.

— I’d thought of stopping in at the farm for a few drams of Kirschbrannt on the way, if you’ve no objection, Piedernig said, smacking his lips.

— Ah. In that case, said Voxlauer, slowing.

— Eh? said Piedernig. The light of comprehension flickered across his face an instant or two later and he began to laugh. — No, no, Herr Voxlauer! he said, taking Voxlauer by the shoulders and coaxing him forward. — I’m no sadist. I’d forgotten your situation for a moment, that’s all it was.

— You’re still amicable with them, are you? Voxlauer said sullenly.

— With their schnapps, Oskar. With their schnapps I am amicable.

Voxlauer smiled. — I’m beginning to understand better about these walks of yours.

Piedernig raised a finger. — Mens sana in corpore sano, Herr Voxlauer, as you well know. In this case, he said, drawing his robes about him — something like last rites.

— How’s that? said Voxlauer. — Are you infirm?

— Threatened with infirmity, you might say. We leave tomorrow for Monte Veritas. He spat resoundingly into the dirt. — Let the Black Shirts have this greasy country.

— Except for my little half acre, said Voxlauer.

— Ply them with enough trout and maybe they’ll let you stay on, Herr Gamekeeper. In an advisory capacity.

— That would be fine, said Voxlauer. He paused a moment. — What should I advise them on?

— Any blessed thing you can think of. The eastern question, possibly. Absentee beekeeping.

— Are you trying to sabotage me, Professor?

They were just then passing the cabinets and they stopped a moment to watch a thin file of bees spiraling upward from the nearest of them. — Ever get any honey out of them, by the by? Piedernig said.

— About a mouthful, said Voxlauer. — Tasted terrible. He made a face. — Papery. Dusty.

Piedernig looked at him compassionately. — That’s the shit of bees you ate, Oskar.

— The shit?

Piedernig nodded. — In plain country language.

Voxlauer was quiet a moment. — I thought honey was the shit of bees.

Piedernig clucked and shook his head. — No, not honey, Oskar. Not honey, he said, smiling from ear to ear.

They had come out of the spruce plantation and were passing the first of the two fenced-in pastures. A few head of oxen raised their heads idly to look at them. — This is close enough for me, said Voxlauer. He led Piederning off the road and into the trees.

— Where in God’s name are you taking me? huffed Piedernig. — I’m wanting my constitutional, lest you forget.

— Quietly, Professor, said Voxlauer. They climbed through a stand of saplings onto a weed-choked logging trail that skirted the edge of Ryslavy’s woods and rose finally through thick full-grown trees to the clay road up to the heath. When they came onto open ground a half an hour later the noon sun was full above them, close and hot and white, and the country on all sides hung skirted in haze. Piedernig sat down promptly on a patch of sandy ground with his legs crossed beneath him and shut his eyes.

Voxlauer walked a few paces to where the view of town was clearest and shaded his face with a forearm. He stood a few minutes looking intently down the cross-cut slope at Niessen, half listening to Piedernig’s mumblings and half to the sound of motor traffic on the toll road across the plain. — I can see your old school from here, Professor.

Piedernig exhaled melodiously and opened his eyes. — May it crumble into dust. He rose and brushed the sand from his robes. — I suppose you’ve been to town recently?

— Not too recently.

— I’ve yet to see it under the new management.

— The overall effect is very festive, said Voxlauer, still looking out across the valley. — Flags, posters, torches, all manner of public diversions. The charlatan in you will be deeply smitten.

Piedernig took a breath and held it, speaking the next few phrases wheezingly, like a man with the wind knocked out of him. — We’re bound to lose some more of the faithful en route, of course. It can’t be helped. Still: it’s high time we left this backwater to its fate. Italy, Oskar! It’s Italy for the likes of us.

— I’ve had enough Italy to last a while yet, said Voxlauer. — I don’t believe things are so very different down there.

— Nonsense! said Piedernig good-naturedly. They stood quietly awhile, looking across the shadeless plain. After a time Piedernig let out his breath.

— Have I ever asked you why in hell you ever came back here?

— More than once.

— But you’ve never answered.

— I’ve always been a patriot, Walter. I thought you knew.

— Ha! said Piedernig.

— What route will you be taking, Professor? The toll road or the carriage road? The straight route or the scenic?

Piedernig made a fatalistic gesture. — We’ll go slowly, I’ll tell you that much. We’re grossly overburdened. Top-heavy, as the saying goes, and bottom-broke. He sighed. — I’d hoped to drop the children off at some sort of public charity but the women wouldn’t stand for it. I tried to explain to them, God knows! that children are a renewable commodity.

Voxlauer laughed. — I’m sorry, Walter. I don’t believe you.

— That’s your privilege, said Piedernig, arranging his robes again. — You wouldn’t consider minding them awhile, would you? You might build a kennel for them somewhere. Or a camp of some sort, the way we did for the Serbs in the Great War. Would you consider it? They don’t require much looking-after.

— I’m looking forward to a little peace and quiet, thanks all the same. Still, I’ll miss you and your collection of basket cases. Else, too.

Piedernig coughed. — Else isn’t coming, Oskar, worse luck for her.

— No. Of course not, said Voxlauer. — I meant that she’d miss you, as well. He frowned.

— Yes, said Piedernig, scratching the dirt distractedly with his cane. — You’ve met the father, then?