The Festival of Bones: Mythworld Book One

by James A. Owen

  He could recall a slight expression of alarm crossing her features just before the blow was struck, but at the time, he read it as an expression of an entirely different kind. It was his most fervent regret that he had not been more attentive to his surroundings, that the opportunity for the incident to have been averted was there, fleeting, and passed. He could not, however, ever recall regretting having initiated the situation to begin with.

  The girl’s father was a cultured man, a banker, not one accustomed to the use of common farm implements; but in stumbling onto the scene before him, he suddenly found the ability and the inclination to do so, not to mention a certain creativity in its use. When he shoved the pitchfork into the intruder mounting his daughter, piercing the back of his neck, Galen was still nuzzling her chest. This was the mistake—the tine drove straight through Galen’s throat and into her bosom, piercing her heart.

  She died.

  Galen didn’t, but he might as well have.

  * * *

  The catastrophe which ensued nearly destroyed Galen, and completely devastated everyone around him. The grieving banker, a well-known mainstay of the community, was arrested, tried, and given a suspended sentence in the attack on Galen. The death of his daughter was ruled a tragic accident. Galen himself spent almost four months in the hospital—luckily, the tine had missed his spinal cord and the major blood vessels. Not so luckily, it pierced and badly scarred his vocal cords. Galen would never sing again.

  With the loss of their center, the opera company almost of necessity dissolved—which was just as good, for the publicity surrounding the attack, the trial, and the scandal resulted in a flurry of rescheduling by every city in which they were to perform. No one was willing to have them—not without Galen, anyway. And as bad as it was throughout the rest of Europe, in Austria the once-promising virtuoso had been declared persona non grata: officially, he no longer existed. Within a year, Galen was without friends, his professional reputation was in tatters and already fading from the public’s memory, and he was nearly penniless. He had found only a minor position teaching music at a grade school in Portugal, where the quality of his voice was irrelevant, and no one cared to ask him about the whitening scar at the base of his throat.

  Amidst all of the fallout, only one non-event continued to plague Galen’s mind in dreams both waking and asleep: he had not performed at Bayreuth. He had not sung Siegfried. And now, he never would.

  * * *

  The road back to respectability was as hard as his ascent into the pantheon had been easy. Galen moved farther into the world of academia, refining his innate but unexpressionable skills into a very respectable talent for musical theory and analysis. He wrote as he taught, generally under an assumed name, and when he had published enough, replaced the burden of being Mikaal Gunnar-Galen, musical virtuoso, with Mikaal Gunnar-Galen, musical authority.

  His teaching responsibilities had stair-stepped from the grade school in Portugal to a small college in Madrid, to a respected music conservatory in Flanders. Gradually, he began to work his way back to Bavaria, and, eventually, home to Vienna.

  The Viennese are not tolerant of their mistakes; as a performer, Galen was virtually unknown and forgotten. As an academician, however, he had become very respected, and thus was able to secure a part-time position as an assistant choir director in the Music department at the University of Vienna. This was not to last long.

  Whatever the mistakes of his youth, and regardless of the damage to his voice and soul, Galen still possessed a considerable ego and an equally formidable drive to excel —not all of his earlier success had been inborn talent or gifts from the state. Within six months, he was a full-time assistant, and before the year was up, he was the choir director. At the end of his second year in Vienna, he chaired the Music department, and four years later he was respected enough to attain the post of Vice-Rector. His return to Vienna it seemed, if somewhat quieter than his departure, was complete.

  * * *

  As part of his administrative obligations to the University, Galen had been forced to attend a hearing earlier that afternoon regarding whether or not to continue the funding for an associate professor’s post and the department he sponsored; the academician in question never showed up, and the entire committee spent almost two hours doing very little other than stare blankly and fume. The future of the department and the absent professor, was not, in Galen’s opinion, an altogether rosy one.

  He was considering spending the evening writing a memo to the Rector, advising the expansion of the powers of the Vice-Rectors to encompass many responsibilities currently handled by the University Senate, but for some reason, he couldn’t seem to stop playing his old recordings. One after another, though all the performances he did and the one that he didn’t, which when he came to it he sang silently inside his head—for some reason, the evening seemed to be ordaining itself a night of performances both seen and unseen. It was this thought that was on his mind when he heard the envelope slipped whisper-silent under his door.

  Brow furrowed, Galen quickly strode to the door and opened it. No one was in the hall in either direction, and no doors were closing suddenly. He frowned and buzzed the usually dependable doorman—but the older Swiss man told him that no one had entered or left the building for the better part of an hour.

  Galen shook his head and picked up the small plum-colored envelope. It was addressed to him, but bore no other identifying marks. It was possibly for some social function—the invitation was not unlike many he’d been sent throughout the years, although in his second incarnation in Vienna he’d been less inclined to attend as during his first—but gatherings of that kind were not the sort of occasion which resonated in Galen’s soul; not anymore.

  Out of curiosity, he thumbed open the sealed flap and removed the matching plum card which was inside. It was not an invitation to a party, but rather an invitation to attend some sort of performance at a nightclub. It appealed to him by name, and made some rather transparent efforts to flatter him into coming, but as invitations go it was no great shakes. His conclusion that it was a low-rent affair was confirmed when he turned the envelope over and a cheap orange ticket fluttered to the floor.

  Galen crumpled up the invitation and tossed it to the ashtray near the door, then bent to retrieve the ticket. As he did so, he glanced again at the envelope and was suddenly struck by an odd feeling, as if an unusual odor had entered the room. He looked more closely at the envelope, then flattened out the invitation and suddenly saw what had bothered him: they were both addressed to him, but they were addressed differently.

  The invitation addressed him simply as Professor Gunnar-Galen; but the envelope itself addressed him as Mikaal Gunnar-Galen, Rector, the University of Vienna.

  Had he not been so focused on the discrepancy and possible reasons for it, intentional or otherwise, he might have noticed that his hands were shaking. As it were, Galen couldn’t accept the thought that it was a mere error; nor could he deny the fact that he had not noticed the incorrect means of address on the envelope. He couldn’t deny it, because that was how he saw himself—the envelope just happened to be the first time he had ever seen himself addressed as Rector outside of the plans in his own mind.

  The Rector and Vice-Rectors who acted as the academic heads of the University served for a four-year term, and this was the last year of that term. One of the other Vice-Rectors, a Linguistics professor whose main abilities seemed to center on the manipulation of microfiche, was no threat at all, and unlikely to be re-elected. Another was fairly competent but, at eighty-three years of age was just as unlikely to be any competition. And the last Vice-Rector had, just a few days before, apparently suffered some sort of spiritual possession, and was expected to spend the balance of the year weaving baskets at a very comfortable hospital in Linz.

  By his estimation, Galen had the support of the Senate, but the Administrative Director, who could sway the balance of the faculty, supported the current Rector, Andreas Ra
eder. Thus, there were three options available to clear his path to the Rector’s office: gain the Director’s support; gain Raeder’s support, or eliminate Raeder from the running altogether. All were difficult, but any one would do the trick, and once Galen was in the position he desired, any tactics used or egos trod upon in the process could be easily covered or bought.

  More importantly, once Galen was Rector of the University of Vienna, he would be in a position well suited to influence a number of prominent Europeans, and thereby rectify the mistake which had cost him his most regretted lost opportunity.

  The Rector had influence among the directors of the operas in Berlin, Munich, Vienna, Hamburg, Stuttgart, Frankfurt, and Cologne; and the collected directors had influence on the foundation which selected the director of the Wagner Festival at Bayreuth.

  He had influence over the University’s alumni, which included executives of companies such as Volkswagen and Siemens and Terminal Entertainment, all of whom were financial supporters of the Wagner Festival at Bayreuth.

  The Rector had the dominant vote on the uses of any surplus from the University’s annual budget, which totaled nearly four hundred million dollars; and the election was to take place during the second summer session, just prior to the dates for the Wagner Festival in Bayreuth.

  In short, someone in the position of Rector at a University as powerful and respected as the one in Vienna could do an awful lot of things—in Vienna, and elsewhere. Thus, should such a person exploit all of his resources and connections to establish a foothold in a festival with a creative and financial baseline that was shaped like a roller coaster, no one would be likely or even able to stop him.

  And, if such a man were to suggest a scandalous casting choice during the preparations for said festival, who could deny him? Especially if he were signing the checks?

  Granted, there was still the matter of his not being able to speak for extended periods of time, much less sing, but Galen was confident that if he could simply manage to get onstage at the Festspielhaus in Bayreuth, then somehow, he would simply be able to overcome any obstacles barring his way.

  If he could just get on that stage, just once, he felt that he could rule the world.

  * * *

  Still, there was the curious matter of who had sent the mysterious invitation, and why they would have possibly chosen to address him as Rector. Galen examined the notecard and envelope closely, then turned his attention to the ticket. On its reverse was the name of the nightclub and the evening’s showtime, not an hour away. He considered it for a moment longer, then picked up his phone.

  A few minutes later, a young courier, the son of the building’s manager, appeared at Galen’s door. After a brief instruction, the boy bolted down the hall and out of the building.

  Trying not to be apprehensive, Galen went to the turntable and put on a recording of Orlando Furioso, then poured himself a drink and sat in the open window. He tried to tell himself that he was merely enjoying the evening air, but caught himself glancing at the street from time to time, awaiting the boy’s return. The first side of the record was nearly complete, cymbals clashing, horns trumpeting in a triumph of sound and energy, before he spotted the young courier hurrying up the street below the window.

  Galen met the boy at the door, where he exchanged several bills from his wallet for a single yellow sheet; a promotional handbill for the club—the sort placed under windshield wipers and stapled to telephone poles. The boy left, thanking him profusely for the money, but Galen no longer knew he was there, nor did he notice as the record ended and began a static-filled skipping that echoed across the room. He was staring at the handbill, a mixed look of awe and disbelief and no small confusion registering on his face.

  It bore a name he had heard, though not in this context, and was attached to a person who only added to the conundrum, as he had been a conundrum himself for as long as Galen had known of him. As far as he knew, this person had no reason to invite him to a nightclub, and perhaps less to address him as Rector. Still, the combination was intriguing enough that Galen considered whether or not he should actually attend. He glanced up at the mantel clock and noted that he still had time to walk to the club; on the other hand, if he avoided it altogether, the temptation would be past in a few hours, and he would have spared himself from whatever experience it was he’d been invited to—but also could lose the opportunity to address the person who may or may not know of his plans to become Rector, and that was perhaps a matter best dealt with as soon as possible.

  Galen stood staring out the window for a long moment, then, almost as if compelled, he turned and looked at the notecard on the burnished mahogany desk.

  Suddenly, in one brusque movement, he whirled about and grabbed it from the desktop. Pulling a cape off of the coat rack, he shoved the invitation and the ticket in a liner pocket and stepped out the door.

  ***

  CHAPTER THREE

  The Prestige

  Rutland & Burlington’s was a multi-purpose nightclub—which is to say the space was almost wholly unfinished, and could accommodate practically anything short of a sporting event. It was situated smugly in a restaurant district which was frequented by the University’s nearly ninety thousand students. The exterior was nondescript, and the signage nonexistent; the owners apparently subscribed to the notion that obscurity equals popularity, and the fact that there was already a line of patrons stretching past the adjacent three storefronts (in both directions) waiting for admittance did nothing to dispel the theory.

  Michael arrived at the club at a quarter past eight, fifteen minutes before the noted showtime, and took a spot in what he hoped was the shorter line. The expected assortment of humanity clustered around the cobbled sidewalk, inhaling or surreptitiously swallowing what could charitably be described as ‘experience enhancement aids.’ Michael recognized the joints by the smell without needing to see them, but he was at a total loss in identifying most of the pills. Years earlier, when he was traveling for several months in the United States under a teaching fellowship, he happened to have sub-let a room in Albuquerque from an artist named Mike Bomba. Bomba was a colorful fellow, and generally all that could be expected in a quality roommate: clean, considerate, and disinclined to wander around the apartment naked. He also was a big moviegoer, and frequently dragged Michael along whenever he could coerce him to go.

  The first time they saw a movie together, Bomba sat alone in the car for a moment, then emerged with a broad, loopy grin on his face. He explained that he was merely partaking of a ‘movie enhancement device’, and then, concerned he had offended his roommate, offered the still-smoldering joint to Michael.

  Michael had never actually used drugs—not directly, anyway; he had discovered early in his life that he had an extreme sensitivity to narcotics of any kind, and that the mere proximity of pot smoke was likely to give him a light buzz and then a shrieking headache. Still, the movie they had gone to see starred Sylvester Stallone, which meant that at best it would seem like they’d gone to see Kurosawa instead, and at worst he’d have a shrieking headache, which was always a fifty-fifty chance with a Stallone movie anyway. He accepted the joint and took a long, slow, drag.

  For hours after the movie, he and Bomba sat in the car in the empty parking lot, tears streaming down their faces. “Man,” said Bomba, “I never knew Stallone could be that beautiful.”

  “Neither did I,” replied Michael. “He is a beautiful, beautiful … Hey—what happened to my thumbs?”

  He never smoked pot again after that—but wondered why recalling that particular memory at that particular moment gave him an odd feeling of foreshadowing.

  Michael leaned away from the line and wondered when they were going to begin admitting people when he saw walking from the other end of the block an elegant, smartly dressed man whose bearing and manner belied the very neighborhood he was walking in; he was dressed in formal evening wear, with a high, starched collar and a dark trench coat that probably cost more th
an the annual salaries of every person he was passing. It was not the clothing alone which set him apart—it was Vienna, after all, and a number of passers-by were dressed to the nines—but also the manner in which he walked, as if a cape were billowing out behind him, and he expected everyone to take notice.

  He paused at the door, then looked both ways before turning in Michael’s direction and making his way down the line. As he approached, his eyes met Michael’s and he saw something enough there to give him pause.

  “I’m sorry,” said Michael pleasantly, “do I know you?”

  The man hesitated slightly, as if unaccustomed to not being recognized on sight. “I believe so. I am Mikaal Gunnar-Galen—a Vice-Rector at the University…?”

  “Of course, of course,” said Michael slapping his forehead and extending a hand. “Michael Langbein. I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you—I suppose I’m one of those teachers who is content to stay in the confines of my own peculiar rat’s nest.”

  “Indeed,” said Galen. “Ironic that we should meet tonight, considering I spent a great deal of time this very afternoon in anticipation of meeting you.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Never mind,” said Galen. “What brings you out and about this evening?” he asked, eyeing the still immobile but growing line. “A constitutional, or perhaps meeting companions for dinner?”

  “No,” said Michael. “I’m flying solo tonight. And I guess I’m going to see some sort of performance, if they ever let us in.”

  “Mmm. Forgive the presumption, professor, but this sort of event in this kind of venue doesn’t exactly seem like your particular brand of recreation.”