professor zender's experiment - 5. schon

by coraline o'connell

illustrated by eddie el greco and roy dismas

editorial consultant: Prof. Dan Leo

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zender had always been vaguely aware that his colleagues in the modern history department regarded him as a pompous ass. he had never let this bother him. he was also aware that his field of study - anticipatory history, which he had done so much to promote and make respectable, but which was now widely considered to be totally discredited as a result of the recent worldwide upheavals - was no longer one calculated to win him fame, or a position beyond the one he now held as department chairman. if, indeed, he could hold on to his position as department chairman. he wondered what had happened to schon, his most determined adversary within the department, and if schon would be back. no doubt schon, if he returned - had zender seen him at all on the few occasions he had visited the offices during the hostilities? - would have some cutting remarks about "anticipatory history", but would he actively mount a campaign against zender? schon's specialty was the minute chronicling of the births and marriages of the prussian and bavarian aristocracies since the formation of the second empire, and he passionately believed - and defended the belief - that "history is documentation". he invariably concluded his briefs by striking the table and exclaiming - "no more and no less." zender suddenly realized - why had he not realized it before? - no doubt because he had not thought about it - that he did not care if schon mounted a new offensive against him - might in fact, welcome it, if it did not involve any serious financial consequences. financial consequences! why had he allowed such a poisonous thought to seep into his curiously and pleasantly lassitudinous brain? for is there not always a strange - though often unacknowledged - for various reasons of courtesy and propriety - exaltation at finding one in a new situation - or leaving an old one behind forever? is there not a universal music in looking back and seeing something - no matter how previously cherished - grow smaller and smaller and finally disappearing on a receding horizon? but now the music, pleasant enough as it had been, stopped. and there was no recalling it. it was over. but the poison spread. money! zender sighed. maybe morgenstern knew something . he usually did. morgenstern was still at his desk, looking at a two-page newspaper - perhaps a different one? - when zender approached him again. zender got straight to the point. "has schon come back around?" morgenstern's almost unchanging expression was one of polite skepticism. now it sharpened a bit. "schon? what would you have with schon?" zender flushed slightly. after all this time - and after hardly setting eyes on him for four years - morgenstern still had the ability to irritate him. "i should have said, have schon or any or the others come back around?" "but especially schon, eh?" "i am still head of the department - so far as i know. until i am informed otherwise. i was wondering if there was much of a department left to be head of." "you mean much of a department left for schon to aspire to be head of." zender was the least violent of men but he felt that if he had a stick in his hand he would have hit morgenstern with it. "be that as it may," zender replied evenly. "have you, or anybody else, in fact seen schon?" morgenstern laughed. "you have been out of touch. schon is widely believed to be dead." "widely believed?" "well, you know how it is these days. no one brought his body into the department in a carpet and rolled it on to the floor. but it seems to be accepted that we will not see him again." "accepted by whom?" "by the count, among others." "i see." "you have not seen the count, i take it," morgenstern asked. "no, i don't think i have seen him - i don't think i have seen him since the war began." "ah. he popped in, made the rounds about two weeks ago." "yes, i believe you mentioned that he seemed unchanged. did he have any particular message to impart?" "he told us to carry on." "of course." zender hesitated. "i don't suppose, then, we shall see him again any time soon." "no." "unless something extraordinary were to happen." "extraordinary! " morgenstern pretended to return to his paper. "what extraordinary thing could happen? especially after all that has already happened - and not happened." "look here, morgenstern, can we speak frankly for once? we know that things have changed, and will never be the same again." "why," cried morgenstern, "have we not been speaking frankly? things will never be the same again - what a thought!" he tapped the paper he had been reading. "but do you know, i have been reading the exact same sentiment in this most worthy publication." he held it out for zender's inspection. it was , as previously noted, only two pages, and of the cheapest paper. "the new torch of light," zender read the masthead. "to distinguish it from the old torch of darkness, no doubt. why do you read such rubbish?" "why?" morgenstern pulled the paper back . "because my field is contemporary - not anticipatory - history - ha ha! as you, as department head, no doubt recall even after the world has been so totally changed. "yes, of course." "permit me to read this. it is signed by a fraulein grunbaum, whom i envision as a long legged amazon of about eighteen years, though she may be old enough to be our grandmother - ' this the time, not to try the so-called soul of mankind, but to abandon the idea of civilization itself, which has exposed itself as a total sham. the mask of civilization has been torn off and tossed into the street - -and the street itself has turned to water and washed it away. nothing indeed will ever be the same -' . there you go, your very words. eloquent stuff, eh? shall i go on?" "please do not. i am sure you and fraulein grunbaum could have a most interesting correspondence on the subject of the future of civilization. i have a more pressing question. if you know the answer, i would appreciate your sharing it." "and that is?" morgenstern made no effort to mitigate his smirk. "are we to be paid? and if so, in what? and by whom?" "ah. ah. that is indeed a question." morgenstern was no longer smiling, and shifted in his seat so that he was no longer directly facing zender. "you had to ask." "i take it, then, that you know no more than i do." "i know that there is still food and drink - coffee, at any rate - here in the building. as i told you, the worthy fraulein mommsen is at your service. " "have you been in the shops lately, and attempted to purchase anything?" "no, but i have heard travelers' tales. no doubt the same ones you have, since you are asking me." morgenstern seemed to have recovered some of his earlier aplomb. he folded his paper neatly and placed it on his desk. "and are we to stay in the buiding forever," zender went on, " like shipwrecked sailors, until the fraulein's stores of plenty are exhausted?" "i suppose the count may know something. if anyone does. if you care to approach him." zender fell silent. "after all, " said morgenstern. "you are head of the department." to be continued

the witches - 4. celia

by rosalind montmorency-st winifred

illustrated by rhoda penmarq and roy dismas

editorial consultant: Prof. Dan Leo

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despite the widespread woe and chaos that they have been credited with spreading, individual witches, unlike kings and conquerors, have not had their lives much chronicled by those scribes who have undertaken to record the histories of nations. it may be doubted if a single witch has attained real fame, by name, in the history of humanity. the witch of endor, described in the first book of samuel, is not named other than as "the witch". it is commonly believed that joan of arc was accused of being a witch and tried and executed for being so. in fact she was tried and condemned for the more unromantic crime of heresy. those persons of an antiquarian bent who are interested enough, can, of course, find the names of actual persons condemned as witches and wizards in europe, in the british isles, and in north america, particularly in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. let us return, then, to our story in the fourth century of the christian era. the three women whom the old soldier probus had encountered on the road to mother ariana's alehouse - were they, in fact, witches? let us dispense with speculation and simply note that they, and a few others like them, were considered to be so by most of the inhabitants of the area, and that they considered themselves to be so, though they would never acknowledge this outright to any but each other. if the authorities had not taken note of them, it was because there hardly were any authorities, as a citizen of today's world would understand the term. barentius, who had constituted such authority as there was in the region, was quite indifferent to their existence, as were his sons (except as they might view the younger of them as pleasing specimens of femininity). the devout asmeralda, however, was scandalized by their existence, and had she had the ear of a more complaisant governor, or of some powerful abbot or bishop, would have urged the utmost zeal to be employed in the investigation and prosecution of their suspected activities. the youngest of the three women who had amused themselves by frightening poor probus, and whose melodious voice still echoed in his brain and sent a thrill of mingled terror and excitement through his simple martial soul, had a history which was no doubt repeated thousands or millions times over in all places and ages - the beautiful young woman of the peasant or beggar class who comes quickly to the attention of the males, young and old, of all classes - who excites the jealousy of women of her own class and the contempt of those of the higher class (and sometimes, the amusement of those of the very highest class) - who resists, briefly or not so briefly, sometimes spiritedly, not infrequently to the death - the casual but implacable cupidity of the siegneur - who is then cast aside to the mockery of her former fellows and the horror (though very occasionally the compassion) of the pious - who is regarded as fallen and ruined by all - who then makes her way as best she can until vanishing into that darkness which awaits the peasant and the potentate alike. it is not to be wondered at that many of these women join the ranks of "witches" or "sibyls" or whatever other designation would be used in a particular time and place. their presence would also account, to the rational minded, for the common belief that witches were almost all either young and beautiful, or old and withered, and that they traveled in groups embracing both types. it also seems obvious, on reflection, that the fear engendered by assuming the role of the "witch" would be regarded as a form of protection, to be courted even though risking the alternate peril of arousing the attention of the inquisitor or witch-finder. perhaps less obvious, though not immediately susceptible to refutation, is the idea that some very young women, perhaps alerted to their coming dangers by observing the fates the others, should anticipate their attackers by joining the unholy ranks even before reaching the first bloom of womanhood. such in fact was the story of celia, the young woman whom probus had encountered on the dark road in our previous chapter. celia had had an older sister, even more beautiful than herself, who had aroused the attentions of the third son of barentius, named claudius, who had long since departed for the capital and a lieutenancy in the imperial army. the sister, paula, had also departed, none knew where.

***

rosalind yawned. she stopped pecking at her typewriter. she got up and looked out the window. there was nothing out there - the same nothingness and blackness that was out there every night. if she scrunched her neck around - or if she opened the window and stuck her head out but it was cold - she could see a few dim lights from the houses on the mountainside. what a bore this whole thing was. what a crushing, frightful bore. rosalind missed the excitement of the war. but the war - sigh - was over. this stupid "contest" was taking forever - even more forever than she had expected. and when it was over, then what? what would be more of a bore, being "empress" or some kind of lady in waiting or lady's lady or whatever in this dreary post-war world? not that she actually knew what was going on in the outside world, but with the sort of people who won the war - really, what could one hope for? look at the lack of respect she got even in this place, where at least she was recognized as a princess. though of course nobody seemed to appreciate that she was not just a "princess" but a member of the british royal family. it had never crossed rosalind's mind that she might finish last in the contest and suffer the consequences it entailed. she tried, without success, not to think of jeffrey. or where he might be. at least writing the stupid novel kept her mind off jeffrey. jeffrey, her beautiful - so much more beautiful than herself , dashing, heroic, doomed brother. who would always be hers because he had absolutely no interest in other human females. where oh where was he now? behind her the bed squeaked a little. sarabelle, her regular night guard, had sat up and was yawning and scratching her neck. "i hope i'm not keeping you up," rosalind asked her. the girl was impervious to sarcasm and just about everything else. "not me. did you want the bed?" "not now." sarabelle flopped back down and closed her eyes. her whole being oozed disrespect. she was a pleasant enough companion in some ways, but nothing could make her understand, in bed or out of it, who was the mistress here and who was the servant. rosalind had hardly ever been alone for a minute in her life, and being alone was the one thing in the world that frightened her - actually terrified her . she kept one of the guards or the maid - she was one of the few contestants who had chosen to keep a maid - in the room with her whenever she was in it. but the maid went home at night and she was left usually with saucy sarabelle. what rosalind would like to do - really, really like to do - would be to take a switch and beat some respect into sarabelle and the other little jills who thought they were as good as their mistress. yes, that would be jolly fun. but it was not meant to be. she turned from the window and sat back down and resumed typing. to be continued

toquette - 4. the postmistress

by jolene de joinville

illustrated by roy dismas and rhoda penmarq

editorial consultant: Prof. Dan Leo

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life was as satisfactory as the sky was blue, the young marquis of whitethane thought absently as he sipped his coffee on the small terrace outside jacques' cafe. and the sky above was very blue. the marquis - actually the son of a duke, with the courtesy title of marquis - was the very portrait and embodiment of an englishman. nothing could disturb his tranquility when he did not wish it disturbed. and he almost never wished it disturbed. of a naturally indolent, though easy disposition, he enjoyed, and sought, the company of those who liked to talk, and who would spare him the burden of speaking much himself. he also enjoyed the company of those who could tell a story, and never concerned himself as to whether the stories were "true" or not. to exercise your mind to decide whether a story was "true" - what a bother! and how was one to decide in any case? toquette's assertion to the policeman that she was from "the sovereign kingdom of asmodea", of which the young man had never heard - although he considered himself a dab hand at world traveling - had piqued his curiosity to the extent of offering her his worthy company, which is how it came about that they were now sitting across from each other outside the cafe, sipping jacques' excellent coffee. "so, mademoiselle, do you have skies as blue as this in the sovereign kingdom of asmodea?" "but, monsieur, i am no longer in the sovereign kingdom of asmodea. i am sitting here with you on a sidewalk in paris." "to be sure." the young man smiled with his impenetrable imperturbability. he had already noted this quality of literal-mindedness in his companion, on their walk over from the street where he had encountered her, in front of m. hobart's establishment . "when i was in asmodea the sun never shone for more than a few hours a day and it rained all the time, " toquette continued. "it has probably not changed all that much since i left." "it must be mountain country." "very much so. there is always an excellent view of the sky and clouds." "and did mademoiselle leave the kingdom to get a better view of the sun?" "monsieur is pleased to be droll. i left because the kingdom of asmodea, after thousands of years of existence, finally succumbed to the implacable forces of the new mechanized society which is engulfing the earth, and threatens to overwhelm heaven and hell themselves." the young marquis was delighted by this response, delivered in a french even worse than his own, though with not quite so barbarous an accent. he put down his cup, and closing his eyes, leaned back and pressed his fingertips together in the best english style. "i can picture it. the ancient castle, the sun glistening off the battlements - i mean, the rain glistening on the battlements - the royal guard, sabers raised to the gray sky, the steeds rearing, ready for one last gallant charge against the black-uniformed hussars of the empire, while the princess - the last representative of a royal line stretching back to the time of cyrus, or at least cleopatra - looks on with her blue eyes raised heavenward." toquette took a sip of her coffee. "not exactly." "no?" the marquis smiled encouragingly. "then how exactly?" "a frock-coated gentleman from the ministry of the interior of the kingdom of hungary arrived in a carriage one morning and announced that the king no longer recognized the sovereignty of asmodea." "i see. and what was the immediate consequence of this decisive diplomatic intervention?" "that the post office closed and the nearest post office in crisana assumed the responsibility of delivering the mail." "and what was the king of asmodea's s reaction to this?" "the gentleman from the ministry of the interior bought several rounds of drinks for the king and his boon companions at the inn. and the king got up the next morning, perhaps a little later than usual, and went to his blacksmith shop to attend to his business." "how very heroic. so no one was in any way inconvenienced?" "only the postmistress, who lost her job." "ah. and what happened to the poor postmistress?" "you see her sitting before you." the marquis was almost nonplussed by this answer. "so, there was nothing to keep you in the former kingdom of asmodea?" "there was nothing to keep anybody in the former kingdom of asmodea." "so you went down to the railroad station and took the train to paris?" "railroad station? the railroad has not yet arrived in asmodea. no, i got a ride to cluj-napoca in the carriage of the minister of the interior." "cluj-napoca? i must confess i have never been to that thriving metropolis." "the minister was continuing to stamboul, so i left him at cluj-napoca and decided to try my luck further west." "it was generous of him to take you as far as he did." she looked him in the eye. "generosity had nothing to do with it." "oh?" the marquis answered politely. "he accommodated me, and i accommodated him." "to be sure." "accommodation, monsieur, is what separates us from the beasts, from creatures such as lions and tigers who must be confined in zoos." "that is very well said." reader, do not imagine that the young man was so ignorant as to be unaware of toquette's occupation - even if policeman jacques and madame coralie had not called his particular attention to it. however, with his anglo-saxon horror of the unscrubbed, he had no more intention of employing her in her professional capacity than he did of traversing the streets on his hands and knees. but he found her amusing, and preferred that she not leave him. "would mademoiselle like another coffee?" "why not? thank you very much." "it is excellent, is it not?" "it is all right. i am used to the turkish method. but it will do." m borin, meanwhile, two tables over, had been listening to their conversation with some bemusement, though horrified at what they were doing to his beloved native tongue. the turkish method! he was not at all sure as to what the young woman was referring. the turkish method! the young man wondered if, after all, she actually was from some distant land and not just having him on. "would mademoiselle like a pastry, or a croissant?" "if you will. monsieur is too kind." the marquis signalled to jacques, who nodded and glided over to their table. the sun rose a little higher in the sky. to be continued

the corsair - 4. marie

by paulette popolescu

illustrated by roy dismas

editorial consultant: Prof. Dan Leo

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like all creatures who have spent too much time flying close to the sun, or at mountainous altitudes, the comtesse de colinson loved the sound of the sea, and as the chateau she had repaired to was only a mile from the shore, and as she had few guests, and as those she might expect were, like the baron de b---------, for the most part excruciating bores and preferably avoided, she spent much of her time walking beside the waves and gazing out at the alternately stormy and placid atlantic. her favorite spot to pursue this timeless occupation was beneath a cliff about two miles north and west of her chateau. the cliff provided protection, if necessary, from sun or rain, and the watery vista, unmarked by rocks even at low tide, provided an excellent view of an edifice whose presence she found both soothing and curiously romantic - an old lighthouse. (but in this part of the world, there would, of course, be no new lighthouses - or anything new.) in her visits to the beach the comtesse had seen no sign that the lighthouse was occupied. she enjoyed speculating on the possibilities of a romantic narrative regarding its abandonment, and had forborne to enquire as to its actual circumstances, either from servants, tradespeople, or the local gentry, any of whom might have quickly enlightened her. on the afternoon our narrative recommences (for the comtesse never rose or bestirred herself before noon), she was walking along this favored spot accompanied by a single maid, the same child the reader has already encountered in our desription of the baron de b----------'s visit. the coachman who had brought them to the spot had been despatched to the woods behind the cliff, on the pretext of catching some small game, or picking mushrooms. the tide and the waves were high, a light rain fell through a mist, the lighthouse presented a supremely picturesque and forbidding aspect, and the comtesse's curiosity got the upper hand of her. she turned to the maid, whose name was marie, and asked whether the lighthouse was still maintained? "oh yes, madame, old mother morneau has kept it these many years, as did her husband before her, in the olden days." the comtesse did not enquire, what marie might consider to be the "olden days." "i do not believe i have ever seen a light in it." "has madame ever been here at night? i have not heard that mother morneau is not still there. as for shining a light in the daylight , the old woman prides herself on her keen eyesight, and is not inclined to waste oil or pitch. or anything else, for she is said to be as tightfisted as twenty protestants." "i see. and she maintains it by herself?" "mostly. she has a son and a daughter, but they no longer confine themselves to the lighthouse." marie looked out at that edifice, which was now more obscured by a rain which had started falling more heavily. "as i do not think i would have cared to, had i been born in such a place." the comtesse was amused by marie's manner of speaking, and was mildly curious as to where she had acquired it. the child reminded her of an abbess, or a crypt-keeper, capable of long silences, but of a perfectly modulated flow of talk, once provoked. "you do not find it romantic?" the comtesse asked her. "not so much, madame," marie responded. "i would prefer the sight of green open fields, or the spires of ancient cathedrals." "to each their own." the comtesse smiled. "tell me, i am still looking for good servants. not that those i have, such as yourself, are unsatisfactory. might this son and daughter, having fled their solitary rock, be suited for my employ?" "i think not, madame. the son is a terrible rascal, reputed to be a smuggler and poacher. not that there is much to smuggle, or to poach, in these parts. and he is said to have broken the heart of every woman for ten miles around." marie vouchsafed this last information, with the same nonchalance she might have said, "farmer pierre's pig escaped and dug up the neighbors' vegetable patches." "ah. well, so much for him. and what of the daughter?" for the first time since she had employed her, the comtesse saw something like a blush under marie's weatherbronzed little face. "that one!" she exclaimed. "of her there is little to be said that can be said." the comtesse repressed a laugh. the rain had picked up even more, and she wrapped her shawl a little tighter around herself. "come, let us move back a little closer to the cliff." there were recesses in the cliff which provided almost the shelter of a building. when they had retreated to one the comtesse stood looking out at the sea, apparently lost in thought. marie stayed a little in front of her, as silent as a piece of seaweed. "do you mind if i ask you a question?" the comtesse finally asked. marie looked up at her curiously. "madame is a countess. she can ask what she pleases." "of course. but these are strange times, when up is down, and down is up and then down again. things will never again be as they were, when one is born in one place and stays there until a grave is dug for them." the comtesse stared at marie but she only stared back. "i have noticed," the comtesse continued, "that you seem to be able to read. i was thus led to wonder - i put it bluntly - have you fallen from a higher position? were you born in your present situation?" "i was indeed born in my present situation, madame. i have hardly strayed a few miles from the village. in fact i can hardly be said to be from the village, only from the forest." "but you do know how to read?" "i do, madame. father paul was kind enough to teach me." "ah. i take it he is the village priest?" "he is. i did so well in the sunday school, learning the bible stories and lives of the saints and martyrs, that, being a saint himself, he took it upon himself to teach me to read." "i see. do you know, i have traveled all over the world, and made the acquaintance of many different, and different types of persons, but i do not know that i have ever met a saint." "that is unfortunate. perhaps madame met some, but as they did not advertise their sainthood, she was unaware of it." "perhaps. tell me, do you read anything other than the bible, or the lives of the saints?" "oh, yes. i am now reading the chronicles of the crusades, and the poems of ronsard." "good heavens! next you will be spouting corneille and voltaire at me. or aeschylus or shakespeare or addison." "i have heard that corneille and voltaire are very wicked." "no doubt." the comtesse looked out at the sky. it was now raining steadily. "we shall have to continue this most interesting conversation sometime. why don't you find michel and have him get the coach ready to return. i will be along in about five minutes." "madame should have brought an umbrella. is there one in the coach?" "i do not think so. go. i will follow shortly. i do not mind getting wet." 5. marie's tale