Heraclix and Pomp: A Novel of the Fabricated and the Fey by Forrest Aguirre Page B

soon as I provided a piece of information, a lead, as it were, that my benefactor needed in order to finish a certain project.
    “It seemed so strange at the time, his request. Yet, so simple. He wanted to know where the largest soldier on the continent would be found. It so happened that in my travels, I had heard rumors of a family of near giants, goliaths, living in Prague itself. I told my business associate to look close at hand and he would find his soldier.
    “Of course, it was all a lark. I didn’t have firsthand knowledge of these giants, only a secondhand reference I barely recollected. Nevertheless, he gave me the word that unlocked the power of this necklace.
    “I couldn’t have known his intent then, but now, in you, I see it, and it is good. You are good. I can say, now, that my overwriting of tattoos was justified. You are no avenger, no destroyer. I know this because you have come here and have let me heal you.”
    Heraclix shifted uncomfortably. Should he let the Serb know what he had done with that hand, or what the hand itself had done to the young soldier? He thought it best to simply accept the compliment and change the subject.
    “Thank you,” he said. “Now please tell me: how does my allowing you to heal me prove to you that I am good. I feel, a bit contrarily, that you are good for having healed me.”
    The Serb smiled. “I have uncovered all the variables. But there is still much reconciling to be done with the equation. I have, through various means, sealed off the top of this tower from the spirits of the dead. But they are still outside, waiting, and it causes me great anguish to hear their cries and to know that I caused their suffering. But I have found that whenever I heal a living person, somehow, in a way I cannot understand, the wounds of a ghost are likewise healed, and the healed spirit leaves my tower. Isuppose they have what they want, and they leave. But there are still many to heal, and I am old. Very old. It’s difficult for me to get around, to provide healing as I wish, and no one comes here to visit except angry villagers who are eventually scared off by my ghosts. I suppose that when all the ghosts are gone, the villagers will be emboldened and burn me alive in my tower. But I am not so concerned with this, so long as I can hold out long enough to heal enough so that I can enter the eternal realms alone, without the dead clawing me down into a gulf of misery.”
    “I sincerely hope that you meet your goal,” Heraclix said.
    “You have allowed me to heal you, which, in turn, heals two more souls: my own, and that of one of my ghosts. I owe you a debt of gratitude. Thank you.”
    Heraclix felt like he would blush, if such a thing was possible. Then an idea struck him.
    “You can fully express your thanks, perhaps, by answering a few questions?” He asked.
    “About the hand, yes. What do you wish to know?”
    “I have an illustration of the hand in my possession. The tattoo, as illustrated, only shows ‘ osvetnik ’—‘avenger,’ yet that tattoo is now overlaid with ‘ oirotvorac ’—‘peacemaker.’ When did you make the change and why?”
    “I did a drawing before removing the arm. You are correct in that when I drew the likeness, I only had the first tattoo. Before the amputation I inked the peacemaker over the avenger. It was a new day dawning, a new birth forthcoming. I wanted to celebrate and document the celebration.”
    “The other party wasn’t upset with your interpolation?” Heraclix asked.
    “Surprisingly not. I thought, after sending the hand, that perhaps the other party might renege on the agreement. For while I hadn’t violated the letter of the terms, I might have violated their spirit. Nevertheless, my offering was considered acceptable.”
    Heraclix brought forth the drawing and showed it to the Serb. The old man took it, studied it intently.
    “Yes,” he said, “this is the picture I drew, though these characters that cloud the