“In his essence,” Isadora answers, now wishing to defend her husband. “Later, when he had the ability, and was not troubled by pain—”
“Yes—when he had power. He planned the death of his wife—who died during our march—and thought to have rid himself of a belov daughter, while keeping an unfortunate and disowned son virtually enslaved. Power allowed him to do all this, yet he thought himself doing only right—for his God-King and the realm. Even when he both courted and threatened you, Lady Isadora, and attempted to arrange the death of your husband and his men, he believed that he did so for the good of Broken, with the power given to him by the true evil that inhabits this place. Well …” Glad in his heart to see that the three foragers have moved to the South Gate and have apparently decided to accompany him as he departs the city, Caliphestros finally says, “Believe it all, if you will, and if you must, Sixt Arnem. Do your very best, for remember”—and suddenly Caliphestros turns a look on Arnem that cuts the yantek to his very soul—“you are the last good man in Broken, now, and therefore the most dangerous. You will do all manner of evil in the name of good—and your first test will come immediately. For I swear to you, if you wish me to stay, you must kill me, as well as my Bane friends—who will, I suspect, advise Ashkatar and his men to take a similar view. We who belong in the Wood will return to it—and you interfere at your peril, less to your life than to your soul.”
“But, master,” Visimar says, as Caliphestros at last moves toward the gate. “You will not even advise us from afar?”
“Visimar, my old friend,” comes a more congenial reply. “You have learned to survive in this city—now you shall even thrive. But, once again, beware. The day will come when each of you will come to understand, in his or her own way, that Baster-kin was not the sole, or in many cases even the primary, source of Broken’s perfidy. You know such in your heart even now, Lady Arnem. But I will promise you this—” Caliphestros leans over to stroke Stasi’s neck, urging patience on the increasingly anxious panther. “If the day ever comes when you do discover and realize what that true evil is, and wish to confront it—then, if I still live, I shall return to assist you. But for now, I must bid you all farewell …”
The old man at last allows the panthers to move toward the gate, the resigned Arnem indicating to his own men that no last obstacle is to be put to either the rider, his mount, the second panther, or the three foragers; and, as Caliphestros finally passes through the South Gate, he laughs once: a complex sort of laughter, of a type Keera has come to know well. “Fear not, Visimar,” the departing scholar calls. “We shall be in contact by the usual means.” He gives his old friend a final, earnest glance. “For it would indeed grieve me not to know how you do fare …”
“But—where shall we find you, master?” Visimar calls.
“You shall not,” Caliphestros answers, passing out of the gate. “Only three humans know of my—of our—lair. And I believe—” He casts a glance at the three foragers. “I believe I may rely on them never to reveal that location.”
“The golden god may descend to Earth, and I shall carve him a new anus with the sword you gave me, old man,” Heldo-Bah says with a grin, his disposition utterly changed, “before I will ever reveal any such thing.”
“The Moon’s truth,” Veloc adds. “I may compose the saga of our journey—but I shall never reveal just where we found you.”
“Trust in it,” Keera assures the rider gently. “Those two shall never reveal the location, nor shall I. But may we—may I—not visit you, from time to time?”
“You are always welcome, Keera,” Caliphestros replies. “As for your brother and the other?” Suddenly smiling gently, the old man seems to soften at last. “I suppose they may come, if they wish. But in the name of whatever is holy, make Heldo-Bah bathe. As to now—you must be away, to advise Ashkatar of all that has taken place. I will make directly for the Wood with my companions.” He glances down at Stasi and her daughter, deeply contented. “Yes—we shall make for home …”
And at that, the two panthers and the man who still, somehow, has the strength to stay astride the greater of the two, immediately begin to run at full pace, the foragers struggling to keep up. But it is not long before they have all vanished, into the last stands of trees on the high slopes of Broken and then amid the strange mist that continues to encircle the mountain.
Watching the group disappear from sight, Arnem, his wife, and son say not a word as they walk to the ruins of the gate. Only Niksar breaks the silence:
“Yantek! Shall I detail a fauste of horsemen to pursue?”
“And what would your purpose be, Linnet?” Visimar asks, his eyes growing thinner, hoping for a last glimpse of his master. “You, your men, all of us, owe that little troop our lives, it would seem. Would you try to bring Caliphestros back, and break his will? This kingdom attempted that, once, and failed.”
“Failed rather badly,” Isadora murmurs, reaching inside her husband’s armor to ensure that the medallion she put there upon his departure remains in place.
“Yes—rather badly, indeed,” Arnem agrees, looking at her briefly.
“Yet having aided you thus far, Father,” says Dagobert, “they will simply—disappear?”
“I have never been given cause to doubt Lord Caliphestros,” Arnem answers. “Nor do I think that he has given me any such, now—he says that if and when a day comes that we discover a deeper evil at work in this city than has yet been discovered, we may contact him through Lord Visimar, who will now, I hope, take the position of high honor I offered to his master.”
Visimar bows, if only briefly. “I shall be honored, Yantek.” And with that his eyes turn to look down the mountain again, still hopeful for a last sight of the great philosopher he has been so proud to call friend.
“And so,” Arnem concludes, “he may be back, one day—but I shall try with all my being to ensure that there will be no cause. As for the Bane, our relations with them shall not only return to what they were prior to this crisis, but shall improve, now that at least two exceptions—the Baster-kin children—to the kingdom’s policy of exiling the imperfect have been made. And I intend to make those exceptions precedents. For, I confess, I ever found such rituals unnatural …” At that, the new supreme secular voice in the kingdom of Broken turns again to his wife and son. “Well, then? Shall we see how the rest of the children fare? I must inform Radelfer of his good fortune, as well.”
Pleased, for now, to have the moment of possible internal strife at last ended, Isadora and Dagobert gladly voice their agreement; yet it cannot be said that Lady Arnem is yet easy in her soul …
Visimar, for his part, scarcely seems to hear these remarks, so fixed are his eyes on the distance. Finally, however, he abandons the search; unfortunately, as it happens, for had he but waited a short while longer, he would doubtless have been most gratified to make out—emerging from the forests at the base of the mountain—the forms of two Davon panthers racing back toward their home within the Wood, with an ag and truncated human attempting with all his strength to keep to the shoulders of the larger and more brilliantly white of the two …
This book is dedicated with the greatest gratitude and affection to
DR. HEATHER CANNING
DR. BRUCE YAFFE
THOMAS F. PIVINSKI, M.S.
who have made my life physically and emotionally possible;
and to
EZEQUIEL VIÑAO,
a steadfast friend who always encouraged this project;
and, finally, to
PRUDENCE K. MUNKITTRICK,
who did so much to see it through before she even knew what it actually was
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The opening chapters and outline of the book that would become The Legend of Broken were first put on paper in 1984. The story’s central elements have evolved, of course, but not so much as one might be tempted to think: it was a truly “perennial project,” because the themes at its core were never resolved, either within me or in
“the kingdom” itself. In those first days, I was living in the back room of the apartment that my grandmother, Marion G. Carr, owned on Washington Square, and working, first for and then with, my friend and mentor, James Chace. My grandmother died in 1986; James we lost more recently, in 2004. One made it practically possible to begin this story by offering, as she always did, a roof and a retreat. From the other I learned more about the rules of the writer’s life than I can say. Of course, this was not the kind of writing that James ever thought more than a diversion; but if I kept at it, he thought, I “might be able to earn a nice little stipend, one day,” while I was pursuing my serious work in diplomatic and military history. As for my indomitable grandmother, she greeted such projects as this with the flat statement, “Well, dear, I don’t know what you think you’re doing.” I miss them both terribly, especially on the occasion of the finished book’s publication.
The project physically tormented me, on and off, for many years: when I was working on it, I could not be prevailed upon to take care of anything: my health, my residences, or several girlfriends. I apologize to the latter, and only hope that, if they read this, it may help them understand what was driving me. Then, last year, with the finish line more or less in sight, I had one of my periodic brushes with death, which was brought on in no small part by the overexertions that always consumed me when I was writing Broken. That I survived and recovered was due in no small part to the patient exertions of my family, particularly my mother, Cessa, and her husband, Bob Cote, my brother Simon, and my niece Gabriela, the last of whom made all the Jell-O as well as doing whatever else was asked. I thank them, and I also thank Dr. Marcus Martinez, and, at Southwest Vermont Medical Center, Dr. Eugene Grobowski, Dr. Ronald Mensh, and the extraordinarily kind group of nurses who saw me through.
When a writer takes on the life of a “gentleman farmer,” living alone with a cat at the foot of a mountain called Misery, he becomes very aware of the daily contacts that make his life work; he also becomes aware of the high price that his neighbors place on privacy. However, I have to risk it and thank Pat Haywood, Arnie Kellar, and the various reliable workers who don’t wish to be named. I must also thank Dennis and Joan Master-son, and, of course, their daughter Catherine, who for long periods during this effort was the only human bright spot in many otherwise rough days. And speaking of bright spots, if not human, I have to once again thank my late, beloved Suki for bringing Stasi into the real world, and the present wild child Masha for bringing me Stasi’s cub.
I don’t even know how to thank the cast of thousands at Thorpe’s for their truly life- and sanity-preserving help, so I’ll just say that Jim Monahan and Dennis Whitney and all the troops there are models of what the healthcare industry should be but rarely is. They are all valued friends, even if they never thought this book would get done.
My brother Ethan has done an extraordinary job of helping me work out the legalities that will keep the immensity that is Misery Mountain and the estate surrounding it secure as a wilderness sanctuary; I thank him, as well as his wife, Sarah, for supporting the endeavor, and for allowing Marion to hang out with her crazy uncle. From ice hockey to RC planes, she’s a real education.
To say that the publication of this book has been a complex affair would be a grotesque understatement; for in its initial incarnation, Broken was quite the beast in need of taming. For her astoundingly capable first swipe at editing it into a tame animal, I have to thank my niece Lydia. The recent publication of her own first book is a further and vivid demonstration of her dedication and talent (of course, she has had the advantage, which she’s shared, of her patient and kind husband, Michael Corey).
At Random House, I have to thank Jennifer Hershey and Gina Centrello for faith and indulgence above and beyond the call of, well, anything. And most of all, I have to thank Dana Isaacson for more than I can adequately say: tireless and expert editing skill, along with real friendship and, beyond that, the ability to learn how to handle the unforgivable and byzantine ill humors that difficulties piled upon difficulties could throw me into.
My agent at WME, Suzanne Gluck, learned that trick during our days at Friends Seminary, long ago; but she had to use every ploy on this one, and I thank her once again, along with the ever kind and patient Eve Attermann and Becca Kaplan.
Barry Haldeman has been a good friend, and shepherded the legal side of the project even when there wasn’t a dime to pay him with. My agent and old friend in Los Angeles, Debbie Deuble, always makes time to help and endure my rants, and even more to cheer me up; I hope she and her husband, Tim Hill, know that I’m eternally grateful.
And, concerning matters Out There, mention should be made of the encouragement and feedback offered during this undertaking by my old friend Tim Haldeman. The fact that he ultimately felt he must end so vital a friendship is both impossible and easy for me to understand: most men have at least one Alandra in their lives—Tim was unlucky enough to father his. This is not an indictment, but rather a simple statement that the events and characters chronicled in these pages, while drawn from various sources, are nothing if not real; fantasy doesn’t enter the discussion.
My nephews, Sam and Ben, have done their always-yeoman service with only the occasional grumble and usually great and good humor; they’ve been on the front line for a lot, and I thank them once again. Patty Clayton took the pictures on short notice, which did nothing to hamper her skill and judgment. My cousin William has shared not only the travails of the book but the far more brutal extremes of being a New York Giants fan; anyone who’s been through such torment knows the extra demands on work, and on sanity, that it brings.
Dana Kintsler visited when she could and tried to pump blood back into my veins; and Scott Marcus, from distances far and not so far away, has been a solid rock of friendship. Together, we three endured the far too early and awful death of one of our original quartet of noise, Matthew Kasha, and I thank them deeply for being there. I’m sure they’d join me in telling Matt, wherever he is, to pick up the damned bass and practice, so he’ll be ready when we get there.
NOTES
Bernd Lutz, “Medieval Literature,” in A History of German Literature, Clare Krojzl, translator (London: Routledge, 1993), p. 6.
PART ONE
seat of unholy forces and unnatural rites Gibbon did not live quite long enough to see his characterization of the mountain Brocken echoed by another great genius of the age, Goethe, who used the site in just the manner Gibbon describes—as a setting for unholy rituals—in his most famous work, Faust. The first of the play’s immortal Walpurgisnacht scenes, during which Faust meets unnatural creatures as well as characters from Greek mythology, takes place atop the supposedly cursed mountain. Because of the play’s great success and continuing influence, it both perpetuated and heightened the mountain’s notorious reputation. —C.C.
the Bane Gibbon writes, “When we encounter the word ‘bane,’ here, we must understand it not as it is currently defined in English—that is, as a ‘spoiling person or other agent’—but rather in that sense in which it was originally intended throughout the Germanic languages: bani in Old Norse, bana in Old English, bano in Old High German (pronounced ‘bahn-uh,’ and eventually spelled bane), which, in turn, translate as, ‘slayer,’ ‘murderer,’ and simply ‘death.’ Only in this way can we see how deep was the impression that this diminutive race made on the citizens of Broken.” [An IMPORTANT NOTE, here: The reason for the shift in vowel sound, and later spelling, that Gibbon cites in the third of these examples is the famous “vowel shift” of Old High German, by way of which vowels in almost all unstressed syllables were reconciled (or reduced, the vowel shift sometimes being called the “vowel reduction”) to a uniform short “e,” which then became the most common vowel sound in Middle High German and finally in modern German. Along with the famous “consonant shift” in the same language, which is more arcane and of less concern, for our purposes, the vowel shift was responsible for transforming, from the sixt
h to the eleventh centuries, a language that was more phonetically akin to ancient German—as well as to the cousins of that earlier tongue, Old English (Anglo-Saxon), Old Dutch, Old Norse, etc.—into one that was its own distinct branch of the Germanic family. That transformation would, in turn, eventually lead to modern German. —C.C.]
still deem the destruction just Gibbon writes, “Here is the first of the puzzling temporal inconsistencies that seem either the careless phrasing of an undisciplined mind, or something far more mysterious: and any critical reader of the Manuscript who is possessed of even rudimentary insight will recognize and know full well that the narrator’s mind, while afflicted with many peculiarities, was far from undisciplined. Yet he speaks, in this statement, of destruction that is to come to his city and kingdom, and then of the destruction that ‘evidently’ has come to pass, leaving us to wonder how, if he is writing before that destruction, he can know not only that it will happen, but what form it will take, down to the smallest details. On this, I shall elaborate in later notes.”
wars to the south Gibbon writes, “Just what the narrator means by the ‘wars to the south’ is made unclear by his continued temporal ambiguity: He speaks of Broken in both the present and past tenses, suggesting that he may have been a visionary priest or some such; or that he was a later historian, assuming a guise for dramatic effect (which is my own belief). At any rate, for all of the period he discusses, the Western [Roman] Empire was, of course, in varying but constant states of distress, disarray, and, finally, dissolution, making employment as an auxiliary uncertain and irregular. It seems that his only secure posting there must have arisen out of his loyalty to the famed general Aetius, who, after defeating Attila and his Hunnish horde at Troyes in A.D. 451, was murdered by the jealous emperor Valentinian. It seems also that Oxmontrot, after participating in the vengeful murder of Valentinian, journeyed east to serve under the Byzantine standard, finding employ in the wars between the Eastern Empire and its various enemies, most notably the Persians, but also Oxmontrot’s own Germanic ‘relations.’ After some fifteen years of such service, the founder of Broken returned home to oversee the building of his new kingdom.”