Truth and Fiction (A Short Story)

Somewhere in my designs for this blog, I had intended that, as well as sharing my thoughts on many topics, and using it as a hub for my web fiction serials, I was going to post shorter, independent pieces of fiction here.  Over the past few days I have been looking through my 'portfolio' and reminding myself of various things I have been working on, on and off, and other pieces which I completed long enough ago to have forgotten all about them.  The following is one such piece, written four or five years ago, which I thought I might try to follow with others about the same characters in the same alternate history, but sadly never did.  It has, as its central theme, much of the ideas I had been posting about during Lent, so now I post it here for your enjoyment.

Truth and Fiction

            “The typing goes well, then?” the Duc de Yorque enquired as he entered the study to see his nephew surrounded by papers and spent ink ribbons.  There was barely even any space left on the floor and just a few inches of a fine rug depicting the   Pharos of Alejandria remained visible.

            “Better than it has for a while,” replied the long-haired young gentleman who sat in the midst of all the chaos, stopping his furious typing only momentarily to spin around and glance fleetingly at the monocled old man in the doorway, “I think I have finally found a way past my block!  At last I know how Henrietta’s lover escaped from the Indies so that he could see her again.”

            “These are your strange ‘West Indies’, governed by an alternate Angleterre in charge of her own empire, somewhat like that of the Spanish, yes?”

            “I call it the British Empire, as these Isles are unified in that world.”

            The Duc stepped forward, leaning over his nephew’s shoulder to wonder at his prose.  “You really have such a fine imagination, Michel.  How do you think of such things?”

            “I just imagine how things might have been had everything turned out differently, for instance if the Moors had succeed in invading Spain, rather than the other way around, or if the Saxon purges had never occurred.”

            “But to think of such things – you are a visionary!”

            The younger man blushed and returned to his typing, the click of keys resounding around the small study with almost musical rhythm.  The Duc smiled and turned back towards the hall.  As he was halfway through the door he turned again and said, almost whimsically, “You know, you should read some of it tonight after dinner.  I’m sure young Mlle. de Londres would find it most charming.”  He smiled mischievously as he closed the door and left Michel blushing for entirely different reasons than before.

            The dining room was glittering with crystal and candlelight as the guests took their seats, still in the midst of their quiet conversations from the hall.  The Duc sat at the head of the table and gazed at each of his guests in turn.  His expression was caught somewhere between kindness and pride.  Everyone was turned out in their finest dress and represented some of the most respected people in Norman society and all returned his looks appreciatively.  All, that is, except the guest of honour, the widowed Comtess de Londres, who matched his gaze with imperious distaste, although the Duc himself did not seem to notice.

            To either side of the Comtess sat her children, the young Comte, a military Magician freshly returned on leave from the siege of Stirling, and Mlle. Marie, who was literally dazzling in a white gown with a net of diamonds in her hair.  Michel, seated to her right, could barely even glance at her without looking like a once-blind man who has seen the sun for the first time.

            He remained silent whilst the others continued their small talk, watching as the servants scurried in carrying trays of aperitifs.  They would lay each plate before the guests with a stealthy grace, careful to be functional, not visible.

            “So, Phillipe,” the Duc began after everyone had finished talking and taken their first few mouthfuls, “please, tell us about the war in Scotia.”

            The Comte’s obvious pride made him seem to grow taller and more impressive in an instant, as if by the very Magic that had made him the Army’s most talked about hero.  His handsome features held a confidence verging on arrogance, but were soft enough to remain charming and his wide grin was considered to be quite disarming, or so Michel had heard.

            “It is the most brutal war we have fought in a long time.  The Scots have certainly learned a thing or two since the last time and, whilst we have advanced much farther north on this occasion, the casualties so far have been horrific.”

            “Is it true they are using Druids to supply Stirling?” asked Mlle. de la Ville de Roi sur l’Hul, an influential young heiress.

            “It would seem so,” the Comte replied.  “We believe they have been Magically transporting goods from the port of Glasgow which we’ve been unable to blockade due to Irish intervention.”

            “Is there no counter Magic you can use?” asked the Duc.

            “Oh we’ve tried all sorts, but whilst I am undoubtedly stronger than any one of them, there is, sadly, a great deal more of them than there are of me.”

            The Duc nodded sympathetically and then turned to Michel, “And what of the Scots in your Fiction, Michel?  Do they have Druids still, fighting for this great ‘British Empire’ of yours?”

            Nervously the young writer raised his head and glanced around at the other guests before clearing his throat.  “No, Uncle, there is no Magic in this world I have created.”

            “No Magic?” scoffed the Comte, “but how could a world like that even exist?”

            “I believe that God requires no such powers to create.”

            “But is it not blasphemy to credit yourself with the same powers of creation?” asked Mlle. de Londres.

            Michel felt his heart leap into his throat as she addressed him.  Wary that she had posed the question a little spicily, he replied, “For me it is just imagination, whereas God creates ultimate reality, there is no comparison!”  Mlle. de Londres gaze was one of mild interest now, though it still made Michel sweat, “But even so I have often asked myself the same question.  In the end, I can only conclude that imagination is a gift He has given me and must be treated with due respect.”

            The Comte laughed, “But what use has God for such nonsense?  God favours the strong, men of action like the Duc and I.”

            “Oh my time in the war with Spain was a trifle, Phillipe, do not speak of it.”

            “Nevertheless you fought for Greater Normandie, surely you would agree that that holds more value than words on a page, mere whimsy?”

            “Well I have not read this latest story, but I have always found Michel’s imagination to be most enchanting.  It warms the heart and inspires the mind, makes the blood pump with excitement!  Is there not value in that?”

            “It is nothing to actual experience, dear Duc!  What point to such insight on events which have not occurred in reality?  Were such stories Historical, then there might be found some purely academic merit, but…” the Comte trailed off, shaking his head and barely restraining his amusement.

            “Well,” said the Duc, recovering, “I have asked Michel to read some of it after dinner, so we shall see then what entertainment can be had.”

            “Oh, I am not sure any of it is ready for public reading,” Michel responded hastily, “I would prefer to leave it for another occasion.”

            The Duc looked at him sadly, but the Comte was smirking slightly and Michel knew that he could never have read it before such a man.  Almost immediately the Comtess, who had remained silently disapproving throughout all of the previous topic, took control of the conversation and began to speak at length of the dreadful time she had spent a month ago in the Alps of the Confederatio Helvetica.  Michel tried to look appropriately shocked for a time, but soon returned to watching the other guests.  It was then that he saw how Mlle. de Londres was gazing at him.  She seemed disappointed.

            After a long dinner, dominated by the tales of the Comtess and her son, they all retired to the salon where the men were each served a glass of Cognac and the women received wine.  Michel lingered in the corner of the room as Mlle. de Londres sat down at the Pianoforte and began to play after a little prompting from her mother.  Her fingers moved deftly across the keys; faster than Michel - who was not at all musically talented, but who’s skill with keys of a different sort was well known - could follow.  The pieces she played at first were complicated and, if the expressions visible were any guide, unfamiliar to the majority of guests.  Michel certainly didn’t know any of them, but there was a beauty and a wonder to them not found in music of a less complex kind and he found himself lost in them quite easily.

            After a few such pieces her mother approached, leaned over her shoulder and suggested, a little forcibly, “Why don’t you play something we can all sing along to?”

            Mlle. de Londres smiled politely and nodded before playing the opening bars of Le Bon, Vieux Duc de Yorque, which had everyone laughing and singing in seconds, however she no longer seemed to radiate her love for the instrument and Michel found that more saddening than cheery.

            More songs were sung and alcohol began to flow freely into glasses and then out again.  As the young pianist tired others took over and the guests began to disperse between rooms as the doors were opened out onto the garden and the light of the moon mingled with that raining down from the chandelier in the hall.  Michel drifted from one room to the next, catching snippets of conversations and gleaning just enough information each time to know he wouldn’t want to join in.

            The Comte de Londres was standing in the midst of a small crowd of admirers, both gentlemen and young ladies, who were all staring at him with a kind of worshipful awe as he continued telling his stories from the front.

            “And so it was literally raining frogs across the battlefield!  All the officers were most disturbed by it.  The slimy beasts just got absolutely everywhere and played havoc with our ammunition and supplies,” he was explaining during one of Michel’s brief passes.

            “What did you do in response?” asked an eager-looking young man, who Michel believed might have been the son of the Duc de Chêtre.

            “The only thing I could think of,” replied de Londres in practised style, “I sent them a plague of flies and the frogs followed.  We must have wasted a weeks worth of rations.  I think, if we had sustained the spell another day we’d have had them, but as soon as it broke they sent for more rations from Glasgow.”

            Michel abandoned the group as a wave of sighs rippled across it, making for the main hall instead.  He entered as he always did, gazing up at the grand chandelier, so he was quite surprised, when he lowered his head, to find Mlle. de Londres standing in the moonlight of the open doorway, staring at him.  He blushed slightly as their eyes met, then, feeling a pull more strong than he could have described in his fiction, began to drift over towards her.

            They stood together in awkward silence for a few seconds and then both spoke at once.

            “Michel, I be-”

            “Your playing was-”

            There was another moment of awkwardness and then Michel bowed and the mademoiselle nodded graciously before continuing.

            “You are Michel, the Duc’s nephew, no?”

            “The very same, my lady.”

            “And you write fantasies?”

            “It is just hobby really,” he replied, his gazed shifting between hers and his feet.

            “Oh, but you spoke about it with such passion this evening.  I was quite stirred by your defence of the art.  Do you really believe that the Kingdom can be furthered through such things?”

            “Well I am not sure that any of my works do it justice, but I do believe that there can be truth in all art, even that which does not appear at first to imitate reality.”

            “And how do you account for such a theory?”

            “I believe two things: that the imagination can be a rich source of symbolism and allegory and that God Himself endorses the clever use of such devices.  Perhaps the spirit even guides their invention?”

            “And what is the evidence for this latter claim?”

            “Well the Word itself is filled with such writing.  Not all that is written in its pages may have happened as it is written, but all is certainly true.”

            Mlle. de Londres smiled at this.  “You have thought about this a lot, haven’t you?”

            “I may not often stand up to the likes of you brother, my lady-”

“Please, call me Marie.”

“Marie…” he savoured the sound, “but I must still defend myself from their ideas.”

“I wish I could do the same.  My family disapproves of a young lady such as myself taking music as seriously as I do.”

“Those pieces you played tonight – I have never heard their like before. Who composed them?”

“I did.”

“But… that is incredible!  They were beautiful and so complicated.  I wouldn’t even know where to begin.”

“Thank you, but Maman detests them and Phillipe is ashamed of me, I think.”

            “He should be proud that his family is so talented.”

            “You heard him at dinner. He treats all art the same!  ‘It is pure frivolity, sister.  If you must play, at least make it something appropriate to your station.’”

            Michel couldn’t help but laugh at the accuracy of the impersonation.

            “But your music speaks of things that his magic could never reach, places a soldier could never tread.”

            It was, at last, Marie’s turn to blush.

            “You know, I think I would like a walk in the gardens, would you care to join me, Michel?”

He smiled and nodded, gesturing for her to step ahead.

“And afterwards I think I might like to hear some of that story of yours.”