It was on Market Day, a full week later, that the vardas rolled through Kronstadt. At the hour when the streets were most crowded, Golescu drove like a majestic snail. Those edged to the side of the road had plenty of time to regard the new paint job. The vardas were now decorated with suns, moons and stars, what perhaps might have been alchemical symbols, gold and scarlet on black, and the words:
PROFESSOR HADES
MASTER OF THE MISERIES
Some idle folk followed, and watched as Golescu drew the wagons up in a vacant field just outside the Merchants’ Gate. They stared, but did not offer to help, as Golescu unhitched the horses and bustled about with planks and barrels, setting up a stage. They watched with interest as a policeman advanced on Golescu, but were disappointed when Golescu presented him with all necessary permits and a handsome bribe. He left, tipping his helmet; Golescu climbed into the lead wagon and shut the door. Nothing else of interest happened, so the idlers wandered away after a while.
But when school let out, children came to stare. By that time, scarlet curtains had been set up, masking the stage itself on three sides, and handbills had been tacked along the edge of the stage planking. A shopkeeper’s son ventured close and bent to read.
“‘FREE ENTERTAINMENT,’” he recited aloud, for the benefit of his friends. “Health and Potency can be Yours!! Professor Hades Knows All!!! See the Myrmidion Genius!!!!”
“‘Myrmidion?’” said the schoolmaster’s son.
“‘Amazing Feats of Instant Calculation,’” continued the shopkeeper’s son. “‘Whether Rice, Peas, Beans, Millet or Barley, The Myrmidion Genius will Instantly Name the CORRECT Number in YOUR JAR. A Grand Prize will be Presented to Any Person who can Baffle the Myrmidion Genius!’”
“What’s a Myrmidion?” wondered the blacksmith’s son.
“What’s a Feat of Instant Calculation?” wondered the barber’s son. “Guessing the number of beans in a jar?”
“That’s a cheat,” said the policeman’s son.
“No, it isn’t!” a disembodied voice boomed from behind the curtain. “You will see, little boys. Run home and tell your friends about the free show, here, tonight. You’ll see wonders, I promise you. Bring beans!”
The boys ran off, so eager to do the bidding of an unseen stranger that down in Hell the Devil smiled, and jotted down their names for future reference. Dutifully they spread the word. By the time they came trooping back at twilight, lugging jars and pots of beans, a great number of adults followed them. A crowd gathered before the wagons, expectant.
Torches were flaring at either side of the stage now, in a cold sweeping wind that made the stars flare too. The scarlet curtain flapped and swayed like the flames. As it moved, those closest to the stage glimpsed feet moving beneath, accompanied by a lot of grunting and thumping.
The barber cleared his throat and called, “Hey! We’re freezing to death out here!”
“Then you shall be warmed!” cried a great voice, and the front curtain was flung aside. The wind promptly blew it back, but not before the crowd had glimpsed Golescu resplendent in his Mephistopheles costume. He caught the curtain again and stepped out in front of it. “Good people of Kronstadt, how lucky you are!”
There was some murmuring from the crowd. Golescu had applied makeup to give himself a sinister and mysterious appearance, or at least that had been his intention, but the result was that he looked rather like a fat raccoon in a red suit. Nevertheless, it could not be denied that he was frightening to behold.
“Professor Hades, at your service,” he said, leering and twirling the ends of his moustache. “World traveler and delver-into of forbidden mysteries!”
“We brought the beans,” shouted the barber’s son.
“Good. Hear, now, the story of my remarkable—”
“What are you supposed to be, the Devil?” demanded someone in the audience.
“No indeed! Though you are surely wise enough to know that the Devil is not so black as he is painted, eh?” Golescu cried. “No, in fact I bring you happiness, my friends, and blessings for all mankind! Let me tell you how it was.”
From under his cloak he drew the lyre, and pretended to twang its strings.
“It is true that in the days of my youth I studied the Dark Arts, at a curious school run by the famed Master Paracelsus. Imagine my horror, however, when I discovered that every seven years he offered up one of his seven students as a sacrifice to Hell! And I, I myself was seventh in my class! I therefore fled, as you would surely do. I used my great wealth to buy a ship, wherewith I meant to escape to Egypt, home of all the mysteries.
“Long I sailed, by devious routes, for I lived in terror that Master Paracelsus would discover my presence by arcane means. And so it happened that I grew desperately short of water, and was obliged to thread dangerous reefs and rocks to land on an island with a fair spring.
“Now, this was no ordinary island, friends! For on it was the holy shrine of the great Egyptian god Osiris, once guarded by the fierce race of ant-men, the Myrmidions!”
“Don’t you mean the Myrmidons?” called the schoolmaster. “They were—”
“No, that was somebody else!” said Golescu. “These people I am talking about were terrors, understand? Giant, six-limbed men with fearsome jaws and superhuman strength, whom Osiris placed there to guard the secrets of his temple! Fangs dripping venom! Certain death for any who dared to set foot near the sacred precinct! All right?
“Fortunately for me, their race had almost completely died out over the thousands of years that had passed. In fact, as I approached the mysterious temple, who should feebly stagger forth to challenge me but the very last of the ant-men? And he himself such a degraded and degenerate specimen, that he was easily overcome by my least effort. In fact, as I stood there in the grandeur of the ancient moonlight, with my triumphant foot upon his neck, I found it in my heart to pity the poor defeated creature.”
“Where do the beans come in?” called the policeman’s son.
“I’m coming to that! Have patience, young sir. So I didn’t kill him, which I might easily have done. Instead, I stepped over his pathetic form and entered the forbidden shrine of Osiris.
“Holding my lantern high, what should I see but a towering image of the fearsome god himself, but this was not the greatest wonder! No, on the walls of the shrine, floor to ceiling, wall to wall, were inscribed words! Yes, words in Ancient Egyptian, queer little pictures of birds and snakes and things. Fortunately I, with my great knowledge, was able to read them. Were they prayers? No. Were they ancient spells? No, good people. They were nothing more nor less than recipes for medicine! For, as you may know, Osiris was the Egyptians’ principal god of healing. Here were the secret formulas to remedy every ill that might befall unhappy mankind!
“So, what did I do? I quickly pulled out my notebook and began to copy them down, intending to bring this blessing back for the good of all.
“Faster I wrote, and faster, but just as I had cast my eye on the last of the recipes—which, had I been able to copy it, would have banished the awful specter of Death himself—I heard an ominous rumbling. My lamp began to flicker. When I looked up, I beheld the idol of Osiris trembling on its very foundation. Unbeknownst to me, my unhallowed feet crossing the portal of the shrine had set off a dreadful curse. The shrine was about to destroy itself in a convulsive cataclysm!
“I fled, thoughtfully tucking my notebook into my pocket, and paused only to seize up the last of the Myrmidions where he lay groveling. With my great strength, I easily carried him to my ship, and cast off just before the shrine of Osiris collapsed upon itself, with a rumble like a hundred thousand milk wagons!
“And, not only that, the island itself broke into a hundred thousand pieces and sank forever beneath the engulfing waves!”
Golescu stepped back to gauge his effect on the audience. Satisfied that he had them enthralled, and delighted to see that more townfolk were hurrying to swell the crowd every minute, he twirled his
moustache.
“And now, little children, you will find out about the beans. As we journeyed to a place of refuge, I turned my efforts to taming the last of the Myrmidions. With my superior education, it proved no difficulty. I discovered that, although he was weak and puny compared with his terrible ancestors, he nevertheless had kept some of the singular traits of the ant!
“Yes, especially their amazing ability to count beans and peas!”
“Wait a minute,” shouted the schoolmaster. “Ants can’t count.”
“Dear sir, you’re mistaken,” said Golescu. “Who doesn’t remember the story of Cupid and Psyche, eh? Any educated man would remember that the princess was punished for her nosiness by being locked in a room with a huge pile of beans and millet, and was supposed to count them all, right? And who came to her assistance? Why, the ants! Because she’d been thoughtful and avoided stepping on an anthill or something. So the little creatures sorted and tided the whole stack for her, and counted them too. And that’s in classical literature, my friend. Aristotle wrote about it, and who are we to dispute him?”
“But—” said the schoolmaster.
“And now,” said Golescu, hurrying to the back of the platform and pushing forward the coffin, which had been nailed into a frame that stood it nearly upright, “Here he is! Feast your astonished eyes on — the last of the Myrmidions!”
With a flourish, he threw back the lid.
Emil, dressed in the black imp costume that had been modified with an extra pair of straw-stuffed arms, and in a black hood to which two long antenna of wire had been attached, looked into the glare of the lights. He screamed in terror.
“Er—yes!” Golescu slammed the lid, in the process trapping one of the antennae outside. “Though you can only see him in his natural state in, er, the briefest of glimpses, because—because, even though weak, he still has the power of setting things on fire with the power of his gaze! Fortunately, I have devised a way to protect you all. One moment, please.”
As the crowd murmured, Golescu drew the curtain back across the stage. Those in the front row could see his feet moving to and fro for a moment. They heard a brief mysterious thumping and a faint cry. The curtain was opened again.
“Now,” said Golescu. “Behold the last of the Myrmidions!”
He opened the lid once more. Emil, safely goggled, did not scream. After a moment of silence, various members of the audience began to snicker.
“Ah, you think he’s weak? You think he looks harmless?” said Golescu, affecting an amused sneer. “Yet, consider his astonishing powers of calculation! You, boy, there.” He lunged forward and caught the nearest youngster who was clutching a jar, and lifted him bodily to the stage. “Yes, you! Do you know — don’t tell me, now! – do you know exactly how many beans are in your jar?”
“Yes,” said the boy, blinking in the torchlight.
“Ah! Now tell me, good people, is this child one of your own?”
“That’s my son!” cried the barber.
“Very good! Now, is there a policeman here?”
“I am,” said the Captain of Police, stepping forward and grinning at Golescu in a fairly unpleasant way.
“Wonderful! Now, dear child, will you be so kind as to whisper to the good constable—whisper, I say—the correct number of beans in this jar?”
Obediently, the barber’s son stepped to the edge of the planking and whispered into the Police Captain’s ear.
“Excellent! And now, brave Policeman, will you be so good as to write down the number you have just been given?” said Golescu, sweating slightly.
“Delighted to,” said the Police Captain, and pulling out a notebook he jotted it down. He winked at the audience, in a particularly cold and reptilian kind of way.
“Exquisite!” said Golescu. “And now, if you will permit—?” He took the jar of beans from the barber’s son and held it up in the torchlight. Then he held it before Emil’s face. “Oh, last of the Myrmidions! Behold this jar! How many beans?”
“Five hundred and six,” said Emil, faint but clear in the breathless silence.
“How many?”
“Five hundred and six.”
“And, sir, what is the figure you have written down?” demanded Golescu, whirling about to face the Police Captain.
“Five hundred and six,” the Police Captain responded, narrowing his eyes.
“And so it is!” said Golescu, thrusting the jar back into the hands of the barber’s son and more or less booting him off the stage. “Let’s have more proof! Who’s got another jar?”
Now a half dozen jars were held up, and children cried shrilly to be the next on stage. Grunting with effort, Golescu hoisted another boy to the platform.
“And you are?” he said.
“That’s my son!” said the Police Captain.
“Good! How many beans? Tell your papa!” cried Golescu, and as the boy was whispering in his father’s ear, “Please write it down!”
He seized the jar from the boy and once more held it before Emil. “Oh last of the Myrmidions, how many beans?”
“Three hundred seventeen,” said Emil.
“Are you certain? It’s a much bigger jar!”
“Three hundred seventeen,” said Emil.
“And the number you just wrote down, dear sir?”
“Three hundred seventeen,” admitted the Police Captain.
“I hid an onion in the middle,” said his son proudly, and was promptly cuffed by the Police Captain when Golescu had dropped him back into the crowd.
Now grown men began to push through the crowd, waving jars of varied legumes as well as barley and millet. Emil guessed correctly on each try, even the jar of rice that contained a pair of wadded socks! At last Golescu, beaming, held up his hands.
“So, you have seen one proof of my adventure with your own eyes,” he cried. “But this has been a mere parlor entertainment, gentle audience. Now, you will be truly amazed! For we come to the true purpose of my visit here. Behold the Gifts of Osiris!”
He whisked a piece of sacking from the stacked boxes it had concealed. The necks of many medicine bottles winked in the torchlight.
“Yes! Compounded by me, according to the ancient secret formulas! Here, my friends, are remedies to cure human misery! A crown a bottle doesn’t even cover the cost of its rare ingredients — I’m offering them to you practically as a charity!”
A flat silence fell at that, and then the Police Captain could be heard distinctly saying, “I thought it would come to this.”
“A crown a bottle?” said somebody else, sounding outraged.
“You require persuasion,” said Golescu. “Free persuasion. Very good! You, sir, step up here into the light. Yes, you, the one who doesn’t want to part with his money.”
The man in question climbed up on the planks and stood there looking defiant, as Golescu addressed the audience.
“Human misery!” he shouted. “What causes it, good people? Age. Inadequacy. Inability. Loneliness. All that does not kill you, but makes life not worth living! Isn’t it so? Now you, good sir!” He turned to the man beside him. “Remove your hat, if you please. I see you suffer from baldness!”
The man turned red and looked as though he’d like to punch Golescu, but the audience laughed.
“Don’t be ashamed!” Golescu told him. “How’d you like a full growth of luxurious hair, eh?”
“Well—”
“Behold,” said Golescu, drawing a bottle from the stack. “The Potion of Ptolemy! See its amazing results.”
He uncorked the bottle and tilted it carefully, so as to spill only a few drops on the man’s scalp. Having done this, he grabbed the tail of his cloak and spread the potion around on the man’s scalp.
“What are you doing to me?” cried the man. “It burns like Hell!”
“Courage! Nothing is got without a little pain. Count to sixty, now!”
The audience obliged, but long before they had got to forty they broke off in exclamatio
ns: for thick black hair had begun to grow on the man’s scalp, everywhere the potion had been spread.
“Oh!” The man clutched his scalp, unbelieving.
“Yes!” said Golescu, turning to the audience. “You see? Immediately, this lucky fellow is restored to his previous appearance of youth and virility. And speaking of virility!” He smacked the man’s back hard enough to send him flying off the platform. “What greater source of misery can there be than disappointing the fair ones? Who among you lacks that certain something he had as a young buck, eh?
“Nobody here, I’m sure, but just think: someday, you may find yourself attempting to pick a lock with a dead fish. When that day comes, do you truly want to be caught without a bracing bottle of the Pharaoh’s Physic? One crown a bottle, gentlemen! I’m sure you can understand why no free demonstrations are available for this one.”
There was a silence of perhaps five seconds before a veritable tidal wave of men rushed forward, waving fistfuls of coin.
“Here! One to a customer, sirs, one only. That’s right! I only do this as a public service, you know, I love to make others happy. Drink it in good health, sir, but I’d suggest you eat your oysters first. Pray don’t trample the children, there, even if you can always make more. And speaking of making more!” Golescu stuffed the last clutch of coins down his tights and retreated from the front of the stage, for he had sold all his bottles of Pharaoh’s Physic and Potion of Ptolemy.
“What’s the use of magnificent potency when your maiden is cold as ice, I ask you? Disinterest! Disdain! Diffidence! Is there any more terrible source of misery than the unloving spouse? Now, you may have heard of love philtres; you may have bought charms and spells from mere gypsies. But what your little doves require, my friends, is none other than the Elixir of Isis! Guaranteed to turn those chilly frowns to smiles of welcome!”
A second surge made its way to the front of the platform, slightly less desperate than the first but moneyed withal. Golescu doled out bottles of Elixir of Isis, dropped coins down his tights, and calculated. He had one case of bottles left. Lifting it to the top of the stack, he faced his audience and smiled.
The Year's Best SF 22 # 2004 Page 45