The City in the Autumn Stars

by Michael Moorcock

  I had gone only a few paces and turned a sharp corner on the path when I discovered to my despair that the way ahead was blocked by some six or seven armed men while a rattling and scrabbling from behind told me that more of their kind were now at my back. I knew that I might wait passively to be robbed or captured (for ransom) or I might try to make a fight of it. I decided that I could lose nothing by the latter choice. At which, I remounted, defying their threatening glares and pretending that I could understand nothing of their patois.

  These men wore the short jackets and breeches, the broad hats and wide belts of mountaineers, but they were not honest Swiss peasants. They were plainly brigands, for they sported a variety of weapons, including two crossbows, an old blunderbuss, a couple of matchlock pistols, a variety of knives, flenching tools, cutlasses and swords, most of which were either rusty or encrusted with the blood of former victims.

  Failing to make me listen to their argot, they tried me in Italian:

  ‘O la borsa, o la vita!’ they growled. Their faces were covered in matted hair and their stink was not dissipated by the mountain air. This choice of money or life was familiar enough, but since I had little money and could not trust them to spare my life, I answered by drawing my Bavarian gun from its scabbard and, pulling back the hammer, pointed it directly at the breast of the one who appeared to be the leader.

  ‘Let me pass, gentlemen,’ said I in English (a language I could be sure they would not know), ‘or I shall be forced to blow your wretched bodies to kingdom come!’

  I was rewarded by the fellow removing his greasy green hat from his head to offer me a mocking bow. He spoke in the old Swiss tongue (which I believe they call Romany), then attempted some French. I shrugged and shook my head, gesturing with the gun for him to clear the path.

  Next he threw back his horrible head and laughed loudly. ‘No, signor! Scusi, per favore. Buona sera.’

  I suspected his Italian to be little better than my own and moreover saw no point in attempting further communication. It would merely waste time. Again I gestured with the gun, conscious of feet creeping slowly up behind me. This caused me to tuck the gun against my ribs and withdraw one of my pistols, aiming it back over my shoulder, an action which stopped their shuffling. We now appeared to have reached some form of stalemate. I could only rely upon their cowardice and there was every chance, though they be uncouth, godless murderers to a man, they were not short of courage. I urged my horse a pace or two further.

  At this the crossbow bolt hummed and crashed into the rock just above my head. Another, made inaccurate I would guess by the warping of the stock, whistled past my left leg and killed a brigand who cursed, cried out, lost his footing and went hurtling towards the river far below. I seized my moment, discharging the Bavarian gun so that it roared loud enough to wake all the world’s corpses, and driving a bloody hole through the leader’s chest. I rode at them, brandishing the pistol, using the gun to club them away from me, while more powder flared and shots went off right and left. I thought we should all be dragged down to the river, for my horse was having difficulty keeping her balance, and then we were through.

  They still ran at my heels, however, yelling for revenge, pelting me with knives, stones and useless firearms, lusting for my blood like hungered wolves, and it was quarter of an hour before I could put a little distance between us and ride out onto open ground while dusk rose up to engulf all.

  The mare’s hoofs sent a dry powder of snow into the air with every beat, but we were galloping now and the brigands were soon lost, screaming their disappointment and hatred amongst the pines. Eventually I slowed to a walk. It was growing darker by the moment. Rooks croaked and shouted, wheeling overhead. The walls of their rocky colonies echoed to their harsh cries, but the air smelled of clean conifers, the threat of murder was past and I knew I must be halfway to Lausanne, less than another day’s ride before I should again see my lady. Within the hour I was readying myself to make camp for the night, not daring any further to risk the winding narrows, the deep chasms and lively rivers which everywhere foamed, rushing to feed the greater torrent lying at the valley’s floor. Sunset coloured the snow a rosy pink and I paused to wonder at Nature’s marvellous creation, the dramatic wildness of these mountains. Then a white hare ran suddenly across a drift of snow above me. I thought I was to be thwarted of a tasty dinner, for I had not yet had time to reload my Bavarian gun; nonetheless, I tried my last pistol, letting off a ball at the hare as she dashed for cover in a clump of rowans.

  The shot sent echo upon echo through the distant valleys. When it had died, so had the hare. It was almost dark. I would have to play the part of game-dog next, sniffing out my prize. As I plodded through the snow and spied the dead animal, a splash of bright blood on its side just below the shoulder, I became aware of a muffled, distant rushing noise which I could not at once identify. It sounded rather like a rising wind or a river in flood. Then, as I picked up the limp body of Mademoiselle Scarum, the noise was suddenly over. I returned to where I planned to make camp and lit a pinecone fire, quickly skinning and cleaning my hare and wishing I had some means of preserving her lovely fleece. Her flesh, when cooked, was sweet and tender.

  There fell upon the night a silence, a tranquillity I had not experienced so profoundly for many a year. In the sheer blackness overhead the stars were prominent, glittering and twinkling, with each astral configuration clearly defined. I entered my little tent yawning deeply, felt tiredness come to me and welcomed it as a friend; then I was immediately asleep.

  Next morning, with dawn shining through the walls of the canvas room, I woke instantly, cheerfully certain that this day I should be reunited with my Duchess. I rose, breakfasted on the remains of last night’s feast, watered, fed and saddled my horse, cleaned myself as best I could and was ready to continue. By evening, if not sooner, I should be riding through the streets of Lausanne, with plenty of time to visit my friend, receive some money, and then (if Montsorbier had gone on, as I was sure would be so) make a properly civil call upon my lady to discover, I hoped, why she had decided to help me and to find out, if I could, what service she required of me in return.

  I was whistling as I mounted my mare. It even seemed to me there was a trace in the air of Spring’s imminence. This gaiety appreciated with every forward step and Nature in all her aspects offered proof of my optimism. I had not enjoyed such a feeling of health and light spirits since before the Revolution. For about an hour my mood persisted until I turned a sharp bend in the serpentine track and my heart sank all of a sudden as I at once perceived what had created last night’s great rushing noise.

  It had surely been my own shot disturbing the snow above the pass and so starting the avalanche which, this morning, completely blocked it. Snow, boulders, even a small tree or two rose high above me. I opened my mouth and uttered my despair aloud, careless that another traveller was already present.

  He was sitting in some dejection upon the thick wooden tongue of a large covered wagon; the sort generally used by itinerants: tinkers, gypsies or strolling players. That he was no common knife-and-organ grinder was plain. He wore a long ermine coat (not unlike the hare’s I’d killed last night), a fur ‘three-eared’ cap to match, and his hands were buried in a muff (also white fur). When he saw me, his glance went immediately to my holstered gun, yet without anger or malice he removed one slender hand to salute me. ‘Well, my noble Forester, I hope your aim was successful last night and ye ate well. Why are ye wailing? D’ye think Fate brought our mountain down?’ He spoke French, sardonically, in an accent I could not place.

  ‘We cannot go on?’ I was stupefied.

  ‘The chances of this wall of débris being cleared within a month are slight, I’ll grant, though ’tis hard to judge the extent of it. Could be there’s nothing for us to do, however – nothing to eat, nothing to pass the time – until Spring.’ He added amiably: ‘Perhaps you should try to accept your destiny cheerfully, since doubtless your shot was the cause of
all this.’

  I studied the massive heap. I was sure the man in ermine was right and that my road was completely impassable. Carefully I reined in and dismounted; my passions in tight check.

  The man on the wagon tongue had the style of a gentleman: tall, thin, exquisite. He looked up again at me and smiled with red, sensual lips (which turned at the corners in an expression of permanent irony). ‘Well, Sir?’

  ‘I regret I’ve inconvenienced you, Sir, by my folly,’ said I. ‘’Tis some while since I hunted in mountains and being famished, having come recently out of combat with brigands, I did not think clearly. Pray forgive me. I am Manfred, Ritter von Bek, and need not tell you I’m at your service. Could one man on a horse try to ride over and fetch help?’

  ‘Aye,’ said the tall man. ‘He could try. But I believe it would be quicker to fly.’ He laughed. His German was as excellent as his French, but his accent remained a mystery. As he rose, dusting snow from knees and bottom, I walked towards him. His van’s two mules seemed at ease with their lot and content to nuzzle through snow to find grass on the fringes of that high gorge.

  I shook hands. ‘I’m Orkie of Lochorkie, Sir,’ he told me. ‘Christened Colin James Charles.’

  The man was a North Briton. I had never heard his breed speak such good vernacular German. I took him for one of those soldiers of fortune originally attracted to Frederick’s Prussian colour guard. Since Prussia now fought Revolutionary France perhaps he had left his master’s employ, having, like many others, no wish to join in an assault upon the young republic. There was most certainly a military air to him, as well as a dandified way of standing and talking. He seemed universally amused.

  ‘I am also sometimes known as the Chevalier de St Odhran. I should add, since I could so easily give an erroneous impression, I’m laird in name only. The few acres of land which remain to my estate are so inferior, Sir, as to have the remarkable distinction of maintaining neither plant nor beast. Nothing can live on it, Sir, not even myself.’

  ‘You are from Scotland, I gather.’

  ‘Aye, Sir. My father took old Charlie’s route to the fleshpots and the more obscure European Courts. After the ’Forty Five there was precious little joy in remaining on Scottish soil. One was prey to the most uncivilised mobs of lowlanders and brute English ye’ve ever seen, Sir. Most of my life has been spent abroad – by which I mean twelve countries and a plethora of principalities, many of which could be prevailed upon to support me in some comfort. In return I displayed my wonders. Wonders learned, Sir, from those heroes of the air, my sometime masters and employers, the Montgolfiers!’

  I looked at his wagon with new interest. ‘An Aviationist!’

  He tapped the side of his wagon. ‘Here she is, Sir. My ship. My pride. My family and my honour, Sir. My destiny and I hope the destiny of all. Aye, Sir, as you’ve guessed I’m an aerial adventurer, currently touring the highways and byways of this continent to raise money for an expedition so bold, Sir, so monstrous well-rewarded, Sir, that the Treasure of London’s Tower could not for an instant match the value. My maps are accurate and I read the compass reasonably well, so I see no difficulties.’

  ‘What, Sir, are you just a treasure-seeker?’

  ‘Sir, I sell the key to treasure. The certain means of finding gold in the more remote quarters of our Globe. I know where one may discover lost races of mankind whose skins are of no colour we have ever known, or ancient jungle-buried cities where the inhabitants place value only on the leaves of the common plane tree and yet live surrounded by gold as their commonest material. They are willing to exchange a pound of 24-carat metal for a few fronds and possibly a piece or two of bark. There are countries, Sir, not on any modern map, countries known to the Ancients but forgotten by us, where the women are breathtakingly fair and the few men they have possess the faces of dogs, so that any ordinary, homely Bavarian, say, will seem devilish handsome to them. Plato mentions Atlantis and Socrates Polaris. Those are two of the many lands we may soon explore. Countries, sir, which are free of vice and upheaval, where mankind may live in peace, escaping from the horrid realities which presently alarm us all.’

  I believe I must have been weary, distracted by my disappointments, for I found myself saying dully: ‘Socrates doesn’t mention Polaris, Sir.’

  The Chevalier de St Odhran frowned as if he had caught me in an exhibition of bad manners. ‘He does, Sir.’

  ‘Not once, Sir. Not at all.’

  ‘Ye’ve not read the Secret Books, I take it?’

  ‘Secret, Sir?’

  ‘Those in London? Found by the Royal Society’s explorers several years ago. Rescued from the dusty library of some Mussulman pasha. You recollect them now, Sir?’

  ‘I do not, sir.’

  ‘At the British Museum, Sir. Yes. Six books of Socrates, all the genuine article, in the original Greek, the philosopher’s own penmanship. I’ve seen ’em, Sir, and read ’em myself.’

  It was then that I believed I had taken the Chevalier’s measure as he had meant me to take it. He was not bent on deceiving me at all, but rather demonstrating his profession. And the demonstration was for my amusement. I found myself smiling. ‘And sold ’em more than once, I dare say.’

  He laughed easily and relaxed. ‘More than once, I must admit. But the balloon is real and she can be flown.’

  ‘What, over this avalanche?’

  ‘We should need more room than is available to us here. The canopy must be laid out on the ground and a huge fire built. If we had it, we could use a gas which scientists term Combustible Air; but it’s rare and very expensive. If we build a bonfire, we should build it against that cliff and attempt to melt it down!’

  ‘I am on urgent business, Sir. Is there any other road to Lausanne?’

  He pointed. ‘Over that way, I believe. To the West. But it is many miles. I would offer you a map, but mine are all of lands as yet undiscovered.’ He winked. ‘Some, indeed, are hardly yet invented.’ Again his healthy, fresh and wholesome face broke in a great smile. He had a long head to go with his long body and it was most handsome when he displayed amusement.

  ‘You’re a very open trickster, Sir,’ said I. ‘May I ask why you’re so willing to lampoon the usual deceptions of your trade?’

  ‘I hardly lampooned ’em at all, Sir. You perceived ’em, which is altogether different.’ He drew from the depths of the wagon a large magnum. ‘Will ye drink some good Claret wine with me, Sir?’

  Holding the bottle between his knees he began awkwardly to apply the corkscrew. ‘I’ll be frank, Sir. I took ye for a soldier of fortune who’d easily recognise my trade. However, I can assure you of one thing – I’m an amateur ballonnier of considerable experience. I studied under the Montgolfiers. I know all the tricks of the Charlier method. Blanchard and Lunardi, amongst others, have acknowledged me an equal. ’Tis even possible, with a proper study of wind-currents and such, to navigate a little. I am presently working on my system for making the balloon fully steerable. But one finds no demand, as yet, for the genuinely beneficial services of the machine. The public insists on treating the science of flying as a mere novelty. Yet the balloon I have in my wagon could be used for the observation of battles. It could study a piece of land upon which an architect planned to build. It could transport people and mail between cities and nations more rapidly than any coach or ship. It could be used for genuine exploration of all kinds. Yet, without the flim-flams I provide for a public forever demanding new sensations and marvels, there would not be a sou for the furtherance of our knowledge. Princes or peasants, they’re the same in this – they’ll put their entire fortune into a fanciful scheme promising to enrich ’em overnight, but they’ll refuse with fury the opportunity to invest in a practical plan which has only common sense to sell it!’

  He shrugged and pulled the cork. ‘Ha! This’ll warm us! So, Sir, you see before you one who began as a serious engineer and has through necessity become a comedian, a showman. I have gone from being a man of s
cience to a honey-tongued charlatan.’ He laughed in considerable amusement at this irony. ‘I would not do it, I suppose, if I did not enjoy it. Yet I began life, on the Continent at least, as an honest enough soldier.’

  I found his company stimulating and it helped take my mind off the miserable knowledge that by my own folly I had created a massive wall between myself and the object of my desire. What was more, his matter-of-fact manner, his ordinary good humour, aided me to regain my grasp on reality, to achieve at least a temporary mental balance. He was a stylish, charming rogue, able to amuse me even as part of my soul wailed in frustration, impulsively urging me to dash into the drift and with bare hands tear a tunnel through. As my attention wavered off after that wild goose, I reminded myself of my good manners and reflected that the Chevalier de St Odhran had, after all, taken my responsibility for this disaster in excellent part. There was no saying how badly I had inconvenienced him, yet he had not uttered a word of complaint.

  In spite of all this reasoning, I was, after my first pull on the magnum, unthinkingly upon my feet and running towards the tumble of filthy snow and earthy rock, burrowing like a badger, careless of the cold; shouting out the name of she who had enslaved my heart! It had come to me in horror that if indeed she had changed course and come this way she could be buried beneath the avalanche!

  ‘I swear I heard a cry, St Odhran! Help me dig, for God’s sake!’

  With a huge sigh, half-reconciled, half-critical, and a look of weary dismay upon his aristocratic features, the tall Chevalier returned to his wagon and fetched out two short spades, one of which he handed me. ‘The effects of a young prospector, Sir. He lost ’em in a game of cards even before he left for the Cornish silver-fields (just as well, since I’d sold him the map). I consoled myself I’d saved him a wasted journey.’

  I drove the shovel into the soft body of the landslide. It was a bright morning and the sun was shafting through the gorge while a variety of birds sang cheerful accompaniment to my own desperate running litany concerning my beloved’s virtues. Meanwhile, the Chevalier listened with impassive good manners, removed his ermine coat, neatly folded it and set it aside, pushed back the lace of his shirt, and set to with a will, chanting obscure, rhythmical Scottish shanties and pausing only to wipe away sweat with a large yellow silk kerchief, occasionally muttering, ‘Is that so, Sir?’ and taking another pull or two from the bottle.