The City in the Autumn Stars

by Michael Moorcock

  ‘And what of your aerial ship, Herr Chevalier? Shall you fly her this afternoon?’ I was eager for a taste of the upper atmosphere, for it would distract me, possibly help maintain the objectiveness I hoped for (and which was already threatened by images of her beauty coming unbidden to my mind’s eye). All the whorehouse had done, as I might have realised had I not still floundered between the dictates of mind and senses, was to alert my body to the possibility of real pleasure, of the profound satisfaction which I had known in just those few minutes of Libussa’s company. I still believed it would be more wonderful to spend an hour with her than to be all night amongst the artful whores of Mrs Sliney’s. And there I had already begun to logic myself back into a trap when St Odhran said:

  ‘This morning I’ll ensure the Civic Authority has no objection. By two o’clock this afternoon I shall have my Montgolfier on the Little Field – you know it? the public garden outside the West Wall, by the Mirozhny Gate? – and be ready to make a demonstration by means of a tether’d ascent.’

  And thus he rescued me from morbid self-absorption.

  ‘Mirenburg shall see our craft rise into the air,’ said St Odhran with an elegant sweep of his long hand, ‘and so shall we establish our credentials as aerial navigators in the popular mind. If our reception seems generally favourable, then we shall surely find it an easy matter to interest the wealthier citizen in the prospect of a Society formed to build a larger vessel.’

  ‘Herr Chevalier,’ said I, in some amusement, ‘aren’t you assuming some manner of agreement between us which has not yet been made?’

  He looked surprised, rocked back in his chair and fingered his jaw. ‘Blood, Sir! I’d thought us partners, and that your wish to try out the ship was demonstration of the fact!’

  ‘No hand’s been shaken on it. No terms debated.’

  ‘True, Sir. Well, you know my proposals, I think.’

  ‘I recall what you told me of your own schemes. At the Hackmesser Pass.’

  ‘And on the stairs last night?’

  ‘A couple of words, Sir.’

  ‘I proposed an alliance.’

  ‘True, you did.’

  ‘So, naturally, assumed…’

  I laughed openly. ‘By God, St Odhran, I can see the machinery of your tricks, yet still they succeed. And I admit I’d considered throwing in with you before last night. So let’s shake a hand on it, hard and fast.’

  This ritual was completed and he beamed. ‘Your literary skills are required first, Captain. We need a hand-bill to distribute from the air. New territories. Gold. Wealth of all sorts to be easily gathered.’ He frowned. ‘But whether we should make reference to your secret charts as yet, I’m not sure. And would it be deemed heresy to mention the Grail?’

  ‘Hold your horses, Sir,’ I cried. ‘What’s this? It’s all news to me.’

  ‘The von Bek family legend, Sir. Money in one’s purse where this sort of venture’s attempted. And the respectability of the von Bek name, of course – well-known in Mirenburg as you’re aware. A sober name, Sir, and a pious one. Upright to a fault, you might say!’

  ‘Sir?’ said I.

  He grinned frankly at me. ‘Well, Sir?’

  ‘Do I understand you wish me to exploit my family name? St Odhran, you ask too much. And as for that demmed legend…’

  ‘Being damned, no honour’s lost if you make use of it.’

  ‘True.’ I hesitated.

  ‘No need at all to consider that part of the business now,’ he said generously. ‘Why not simply add a poetic flourish to the hand-bills and we’ll see how we fare?’

  There was nothing to lose from that suggestion, so I agreed.

  St Odhran was on his way about the town as soon as he was properly and perfectly attired and I remained at The Martyred Priest drafting our Advertisements which we should, in good time, scatter as messages from the sky. I was not required to be specific. Choosing between Zeus and Jupiter as titular drivers of our Flying Chariot took up more than an hour and finally I rejected both and decided upon DONAN as most apt for Nordic climes, though I believe Svitavian gods were of a still grimmer, Slavic persuasion and had names like Graak or Kog. Sergeant Schuster took an interest. He asked if I’d ever witnessed the Parisian balloon-flights and I was bound to admit I had missed them all, though of course other balloons had been used strategically during the conflict. He himself had seen a vessel in flight only once, he said. It was meant to go from Salzburg to Basel, but the wind had changed. He heard the Aeronauts were eventually found in the Bulgar Mountains, though every scrap of the balloon’s bright silk had been stolen by brigands and the Aeronauts themselves were shivering, mother-naked in their basket. ‘An abnormal knowledge of the paths of the wind, greater than any sea-borne navigator’s, must be something of a necessity,’ he said.

  I agreed that it seemed likely. But St Odhran apparently had methods of steering as yet untried. I held up his notes. ‘The large ship he plans will have appropriate mechanisms.’

  I realised I was doubtless already acting as a megaphone for the British swindler. I had no means of telling how much the Chevalier drew the long bow and would have to bide my time before I found out. Moreover, I could not say much abroad of St Odhran’s schemes, lest I betray his confidence. So I held my tongue. Sergeant Schuster, however, had plainly noticed nothing odd in my manner and went on to talk about the fears expressed in a Viennese journal that a French flying army might at any time attack the city.

  In those days, of course, the French were thought to be Masters of the Air and nobody had any clear notion of how such a fleet could be built and, if built, how it might be resisted. It occurred to me that St Odhran and I would do well to play upon that misconception. What else would make immortal Mirenburg stronger still but the construction of a flotilla of aerial men-o’-war?

  St Odhran, returning from the Staatshaus in some elation, displayed his licence, a mixture of printing, ornamental script, decoration (in five colours, including gold) and several seals and ribbons. It was our permission to hold our demonstration.

  Now, he said, we would have to canvass prominent burghers and drum up a popular crowd besides. The time seemed too short, I said. ‘No,’ said St Odhran, ‘we have brushes and ink. A brief notice is always best on a wall. Paint this, von Bek, if you will –’ and he writes with a flourish in large letters: LITTLE FIELD TODAY! AIR-SHIP ASCENT. 3PM – ‘as many times as you can!’

  Within an hour I’d a stiff wrist and a hundred posters. St Odhran was long since gone to make all his arrangements. It was noon. Sergeant Schuster’s Martha had boiled us up a huge pot of paste. Armed with this and the bills, we attacked every blank wall we could find in Mirenburg. Church, school and public building – none was safe from us. Then it was thirty minutes past one o’clock and urchins followed us here and there while large crowds were assembling in our wake. I was mightily pleased at the attention. St Odhran was already at the Little Field and as soon as our work was finished we raced to meet him. The day was passing in a whirl. If only, I thought, the same pace could be maintained for a month or so, then I would be more confident of Libussa ceasing to tempt my thoughts. This pining was repugnant to me. It was demeaning. I was like a schoolgirl panting after the first man to kiss her lips, ready to give up honour, dignity, ambition in furtherance of a senseless passion. It should not be so.

  Then we were off up the wide Mladota Steps and into Grünegasse, Schuster and me, running like boys on holiday, taking the shortest route through covered alleys, lanes and passages, to reach the West Gate, the Bull’s Gate of Alaric III, the Mirozhny Gate, and out through evergreens, down a long grassy slope under a wonderful, hazy Winter sun, misty with melting snow, to where a monstrous brazier burned, copper and iron, red as rubies, giving forth a blast of smoke and flame like the voice of Siegfried’s dragon. Two lads in wool coats and sheepskin hats, with mittens on their hands, held the wide brass hoop of the balloon’s neck close to the hot air while the silk rippled and bubbled and slo
wly filled. Up behind us the walls were already crowded with every class of townsfolk. (Some few had spyglasses and these were passed swiftly from eye to eye.)

  Used to addressing such gatherings, but not used to being observed like an ape at a fair, I became embarrassed, and wondered if I should make a speech or at very least salute the crowd. But this, I supposed, would have been in poor taste, for the balloon was the chief performer and St Odhran her keeper, her trainer. The Scotchman’s full attention was upon the filling up of his vessel with hot air. Distant cries issued from the crowd – doubtless expressing its curiosity, asking questions. A few little boys and their dogs dared come closer but were sternly waved back by a dignified St Odhran. On the far side of the growing canopy, and attached by stout bell ropes, was an ornamental wooden and wicker car, gilded, tasselled, a trifle on the threadbare side, with a head, wings and tail of some fabulous creature. This was the cockatrice, no doubt, which my friend saw flying over Prague. To me it resembled a Gryphon more. It was brightly painted (if chipped here and there) and resembled the kind of thing Indian Princes used to decorate their shrines or place upon the backs of their ceremonial elephants.

  As the balloon took shape St Odhran gestured for Schuster and myself to join him. ‘I’m much impressed, gentlemen, by your crowd-gathering skills,’ he said cheerfully as he took a hefty pair of bellows to the brazier and made it roar with an intensity which seemed to me unnecessary but which pleased the audience. They clapped and whistled, sending little clouds of steamy breath into the cold air. The sky remained sharp blue and with no hint of snow. Nearby was St Odhran’s emptied cart. His mules cropped the lawn. Two members of Mirenburg’s militia stood by, guarding the cart, fingering their muskets and asking bored, unsophisticated questions.

  One of these guards, a confirmed and noisy atheist, discoursed on how the wind, which progressed at different speeds according to the height one achieved, must eventually be charted so that we should be able to move along its courses much as we presently moved on highways. His main theme, however, was on the subject of Heaven and how the Air-ship would not find it, thus revealing as balderdash the religious tyranny to which our race had been subjected for nigh twenty centuries. ‘That’s why the Church wishes to abolish such vessels,’ he confided.

  The canopy bulged and was restless as the hot air slowly filled it. The ‘Charlier’, St Odhran said, was easier to fill and to fly, but the ‘inflammable air’, the hydrogen gas, which lifted her was also very dangerous and liable to ignite at a spark. The canopy lurched upright and ropes tightened on the Gryphon. The crowd, amongst it scientists and bureaucrats, which stood upon the wall gave a great cheer whenever it seemed the silk filled another significant inch or two. All we were missing was a municipal orchestra and a few words from the Mayor! Meanwhile the wall continued to be crammed, at its top and at its feet, with all manner of folk, from well-to-do ladies in bonnets and crinolines to barge-captains in their oilskins.

  All the rivermen had arrived together, drunk and pretending they were taking an official holiday, each with at least one stone bottle of gin or aquavit upon his person. The militia stared coolly at the bargees as if challenging them to do anything even mildly destructive. The rivermen all removed their hats at once and leaned dutifully towards the growing balloon, pursing their lips and widening their eyes in so comical a display that even St Odhran was forced to laugh at them. He looked up at his balloon, cocked his head on one side, squinted, ran his hand across the tightening silk and meanwhile pumped furiously with his remaining arm at his bellows, forcing the hot air into the envelope until his long face cleared in relief. Either a leak he suspected was not there or it was too small to be of much significance.

  Still the crowd grew bigger. I began to think entertainment must be hard to come by in Mirenburg. I recognised half the whores from Mrs Sliney’s, looking more like gentlewomen of the beau-monde, in beaver hats and fine shawls, and not generally seen for what they were, save by certain embarrassed gentlemen who shook their heads when their wives enquired after this unusually large group of single women. Then with a lurch the canopy was up to full height, rising swiftly to halt suddenly and strain on her tethering rope with the green, gold, red, blue and white gondola swaying below like a captured beast from mythology.

  St Odhran was quick with his ropes, testing each one to ensure it was securely anchored, bowing to the good-humoured spectators like some circus lion-tamer who had accomplished a particularly daring trick. The canopy rose high above my head and I, like the people on the walls, gasped in awe. I had never realised the thing could be so huge. It was the size of a building and it shone green and gold and scarlet in the bright Winter light.

  I felt I was witnessing an authentic miracle. Suddenly I had a profound respect for St Odhran, who no longer seemed a charming rogue but an engineer of genius, since few had ever learned the techniques of the unfortunate Montgolfiers (one of whom was now dead, while the other continued to enjoy the disfavour of a Revolutionary government identifying him with the king who had patronised him). Secondly I knew some measure of pride in my native land and its contribution to this miracle. The Montgolfiers always acknowledged the writings of Albert of Saxony, the fourteenth-century monk whose treatise on flight inspired them to begin their own experiments. Albert, so family legend ran, was an ancestor to the von Beks.

  Now St Odhran was on the move, lifting his tall hat in recognition of the crowd’s applause, bowing this way and that, checking his machine in all its details, testing the pegs to which a single thick coil of rope was attached, then he signed to me.

  There was room for at least four in the gondola, but Schuster would not be tempted. He hung back, a look of pale terror on his little face. So I smiled, clapped him on the shoulder and joined St Odhran at the rope ladder we must climb. The Scotchman was chuckling and full of himself. I shook his hand enthusiastically. Overhead the silk blazed and strained: Donan’s Chariot must fly to greet Tomorrow’s Dawn!

  St Odhran went up first, moving rapidly as the ladder swayed. I imitated him, more self-consciously, attempting to keep at least a semblance of dignified balance as I followed him into the car (which within resembled a large rowing boat). The vessel itself, once boarded, was surprisingly steady. One might hardly have been airborne at all! There was a large picnic hamper fixed under a seat, books in a glass box, scientific instruments and all manner of blankets, quilts, clothing, weapons – indeed what was probably the entire contents of his wagon, all carefully stowed. St Odhran leaned out as I walked to the far side to help balance the car. The stern was equipped with a large oar and there were monstrous bellows, too, also a ship’s anchor, giving the whole contraption a parodically nautical appearance.

  St Odhran cried ‘Let Go!’ to the lads below and I sensed a tiny jerk, but no sensation of flying, so I assumed we were not yet ascending. It was only when I stepped to peer over the side and saw the ground rushing away below at terrific speed that I realised we were leaving Earth behind! I could not hold back my exclamation. My stomach spun like a treadmill and I was close to vomiting. Then I recovered enough to watch.

  Within a minute or two, when the balloon was some three hundred feet into the air, I could look down upon the walls and palaces of Mirenburg and see little white faces all staring upwards. It was possible to imagine the power one would feel should one be in command of the large vessel St Odhran imagined. With mounted cannon and a brave crew one could achieve more than any Army. I began to think in terms of aerial piracy. An entire city might be taken, as the bandits of the High Seas once took single galleons!

  Base though the emotion was, there was no denying I felt at least a demigod as we listened to the tiny voices of the crowd cheering while we were borne upward, standing as it were upon a balcony in a Palace of the Skies. One moment I was Mercury, the next I was Blackbeard! There could be no defence at all against a navy able to anchor overhead and rain grenades or whole barrels of gunpowder upon the rooftops. Under the leadership of some new Attil
a, some purifying Scourge which came not from the East but from the regions of Heaven itself, a world revolution might indeed be possible! Here was an instrument of relentless justice and infinite destruction!

  (My recollection suggests that my ascent – upon 300 foot of tethering bell rope – by aerial ship was the first moment I truly realised the world had embarked upon a radical new course in which mankind’s theories and dreams could now be made reality. Not by philosophical persuasion or example, but by mechanical means! We were at the threshold of a Millennium, whereby we would steadily increase our mastery of the natural world. Weather and all the elements would eventually come under our control. So, too, should we master our own sensibilities. By the power of Vulcanic mesmerism, if not by the power of our wills.)

  Near drunk with all this, I waved again to the little upturned heads. St Odhran began to unfurl flags here and there, like a sideshow conjuror. A reader might reflect upon the irony of my situation at that moment. There was I, a veritable king of the air, admired by a crowd which would not be so impressed had Frederick of Prussia himself risen from death and come a-visiting; borne up (it seemed) by distant cheers from below, and swelling with unearned pride (in spite of being nought but a passenger); supported upon a platform hanging from no more than a few yards of silk, a little hot air and (of most significance) the application of a scientific theory some four hundred years old, preening and strutting and symbolising (for myself at any rate) prospective conquest not of other nations but of the world of intellect and spirit, while at the same moment looking into the immediate future I foresaw a treasure in gold and silver coin which must surely be the tribute paid to us, the prophets (and profiteers!) of this quintessential monument to a dawning age of science – yet planning a flim-flam, a confidence trick, a Share Bubble, of the lowest mediocrity! At last it seemed I’d discovered the secret of financial success, of retaining authentic idealism while, without apparent contradiction, turning a handsome gain. The future was not to be Rousseau’s Natural Kingdom nor yet Paine’s Utopia, after all. It was to be the creation of men who’d labour in iron-foundries to give flesh to the dreams of Arkwright, Smeaton, Watts, Trevithick and other engineers who’d become to the nineteenth century what Voltaire, Burke and Kant had been to our eighteenth. It was at this point I thought to ask my elated companion when we might expect to return to Earth.