Floozman: First Episode
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Part 8: On the Road to Mulhouse
part 2 of 3 |
Sophie is happy, at last. Her unified will runs through the perplexed weave of the forest. She feels the sharp air of May in her bodice, the smell of ferns, her horse’s shoulders rolling in a long gallop. There are more signs of the battle as she goes down into the Rhine valley, which now unfolds before her in all its glory. The sky is so blue that she wants to pray.
No doubt the very light of the Almighty is stoking the green blaze that scorches and does not burn the orchards and vineyards on the hillside. She leaves by the wayside groups of villains bristling with pikes, encampments in clearings, wagons loaded with victuals, a cannon hauled by four horses.
“Where is your chief?”
“The eternal council is meeting in the hamlet farther down, Madame. Be careful, the Duke of Lorraine’s troops are only two leagues away. The battle can begin any time now!”
Sophie would love to give battle without hesitation, but she turns back to rejoin the convoy she has left behind under command of her accountant. A few moments later, they halt in the poor farmyard where the council is being held. There is nothing to distinguish the leaders.
“I am the accursed banker’s wife!” she says, alighting. “Fear not. My father, the consul came to me in a dream. The end of times is near, he told me. The spirit must now come back to the spirit. The Alone to the Alone! See the poverty of the wretched! Listen to their prayer and give them the treasure. He told me everything I have to do. Behold!”
She beckons to her men and they unload the coffers. Under the eyes of the peasants assembled, she throws in the well the main account book of the bank.
The book does not fall. It opens...
Sophie starts to tremble with all her body. Her beautiful curly blonde hair undulates, her back tenses. She goes awkwardly into a trance, stomping her feet. Then she speaks to the book:
“Let there be truth!
And let the Kingdom come!
With it, slaves delivered,
Value devaluated
Mortgages mortified,
Funds defunct,
Money demonetized.”
Lifted by a column of white fire, the book rises slowly. Those who have not flown sink to their knees.
“Credits debited,
Profits lost,
Alphas omegatized,
Terms terminated,
Bonds unbounded,
Stocks destocked,
Shares undivided!
Settle it all, I command you!”
As she sings, clouds of gold and soot gather in the sky. Thunder rumbles like a cosmic voice, and lightning strikes all around the farm. Still in contact with the powers, Sophie addresses the troops:
“Draw from these trunks, take the golden figs, the diamonds and the things of magic worth. Have no fear, for it’s celestial manna. As long as I live, it shall not be exhausted. Be sure that your hands will be full at any time to buy back your enemies’ heart, the freedom of their horses and even the cloth of their coats of mail. And now, give me a sword!”
An old Swiss mercenary comes forward and hold her his blade, his eyes wet with tears:
“Her name is Jeannette...”
Sophie kisses him before she puts Jeannette at her belt. She climbs on the coping and brings up the bucket, like a farm girl. She drinks. Her skin immediately takes on the color of gold.
“I am the treasure! The water of this well will make you invincible. Come and drink this all of you!”
The man drinks. “But this is wine! It is good!”
“Yea! Drink and dance! The time of the battle is near. Remember the massacre of Saverne: the Duke’s generals promised our brothers he would spare their lives and then slaughtered them like pigs when they came out of town. All of them! His men plundered, raped and set the country ablaze. Eclipse the massacre of Sherwiller. I have the celestial vision, I can see the past and the times to come: our past of servitude and the coming of the Kingdom! I see it! The celestial city sparkling as I speak, right above us.
“But evil is not defeated. Another future wants to come into being, one where the wealthy and the bourgeois will chase you from your land. With your sweat, they will rear towers to the skies and dig galleries deep into the mountains. They will let you live only to be yoked to their machines like blind horses. They will extort all your value. They will decree the death of God and tear you away from the earth!”
The day ends, and the peasants are singing. They have drunk little wine; hope intoxicates them. In an indigo light, matter peacefully awaits the hour of deliverance. Suddenly the bell tolls. Hundreds of bats fly away into the sky, and the breeze is filled with screams: “Fire! Fire!” In the northeast the village is in flames. Refugees and looters soon rush in from all quarters.
Now the two armies stand face to face. The Ducal army holds the hillside in serried ranks before the flaming village. The bands of peasants are gathered in the vale, between two well closed vineyards.
In the Duke’s camp, twelve army corps of a thousand men are deployed under a sky of multicolored banners. Black smoke rises in the background, on the side of darkness. The fire is reflected in the glittering blades, in the knights’ armour, and on the polished breastplates of the foot soldiers. The combatants are armed with swords, maces, javelins and spears. The commanders are standing in front, their weapons raised.
Sophie arranges her troops in a half-moon formation. How many sturdy peasants are ready to fall on the battlefield and how many valiant hired soldiers? Holding in her hand the standard of liberty glowing crimson in the evening sun, she gallops along the front line, together with the Swiss mercenary and her faithful accountant. The pikes hardened by winds stand like a dense forest. The professional soldiers are armed with arquebuses and axes and wear helmets of iron.
“They will not wait till morning, Madame. They have set the village on fire to light the battlefield...” says the Swiss.
“See how they do not wage war in a noble manner,” says Sophie in a loud voice, turning to her army. “They will not announce their names before duels, they will strike men on the run, and even drummers...”
“Err... Many of our men don’t really have a name, you know. They don’t talk much before fighting.”
“Your enemies have lost all nobility!” shouts the ardent-hearted Sophie. “The gold and the gems you hold in your inexhaustible haversacks will drain them of their will to fight.”
But events are already colliding, indifferent to causes and the course of time. They propagate themselves very far towards what is to them the most remote, so far across the worlds that an influence node appears on the Rue des Ecoles in the fifth district of Paris, where a retired optician catches himself thinking — how absurd — of cold biting dirty, naked feet; of blood; of a cavitied tooth. He tucks his nose in his yellow cashmere scarf as he enters a butcher’s shop.
And now, in the uncertain shadow, the Knight of Unheimliche advances. Sophie cries out when she recognizes the shield of her father’s old friend: the Gorgon of dreadful eyes, framed by Fear, Rout and a round carafe of red wine.
He takes off his armor and walks towards the enemy with open arms. He approaches Oprisk, his old fencing master, magnificent on his white steed, and speaks to him these wingèd words:
“Remember, O Invincible, I was to fight you in the other life we knew.”
“That is true, and I gave you my blessing. Once again I am bound to my lord by wealth, but in my heart I pray for your victory.”
The knight thanks him; then he turns to the army of Lorraine and announces with a loud voice: “Whosoever chooses the camp of Justice will be accepted as an ally!”
Rejoicing that he has fulfilled his duty, the knight of many lives goes back to the army of the Valley. Horns and drums accompany him. Chiefs of both parties applaud, and even the mercenaries are moved.
Thousands of arrows and bullets begin to hiss from both sides. The cannon thunders. With terrifying screams and a tremendous ardor the Duke’s army rushes into the valley where the rabble are waiting. They meet with a shock that is terrible and deadly.
All enter the fray. Dealing heavy mace blows, the Duke’s cavalrymen cut dark gashes in the peasants’ ranks. Elsewhere, serried like a hedgerow, the wretched press the infantrymen with their pikes so hard that the enemy can wield neither sword nor axe. They spread hundreds of precious stones on the ground and into the joints of armor, taking advantage of their foes’ bewilderment to run them through with daggers. In the clash of blades, rumor spreads. Cupidity pervades the rows of the Lorraines and weakens them.
Full of Mana and bellicose ardor, Sophie and the knight move forward, alone in the struggling crowd, sowing rout like an irresistible squall, their armor befouled with black blood. The Duke’s soldiers draw back when they see the abyss of death open under their feet. The bravest peasants march in their wake, bearing aloft the stuffed pig’s head, impetuous, terrible, fleshy, and haughty. They break the lines and bring down the standards. Deep in each heart, hope of victory kindles the strength to fight unyieldingly.
Sweet confidence lifts the souls in the valley and all around. The celestial vault is stirring, brimming with the rain of liberation. When Sophie splits open the skull of the Count of Grease, his brains squirt from all sides. Her sword gleaming with blood glistens in the green light. The cardinal points of the compass sparkle. Luigi and Mario, the light-footed plumber, greet her at the fourth level.
Despondency seizes Anthony’s troops. The Ducal army dwindles hour by hour. Trampling on the lifeless corpses streaming from every wound, the Altorf Gang is the first to reach the village where hundreds of peasants have hurried in reinforcement.
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Copyright © 2005 by
Bertrand Cayzac
Dépôt S.A.C.D. 174 627
