Fata Morgana by William Kotzwinkle Page A

his footsteps high, drinking in the fresh clean draughts of winter air. Nuremberg can’t be more than an hour’s ride; up this hill, then, that’s a stout lad, push your fat along and don’t eat so much today.
    The road to the inn was being plowed by a team of men and horses, who dragged a large wooden blade
    through the snow. The horses’ manes were filled with snow and the men’s beards glistened with frost. They’d obviously been working all night, for the way was now wide enough for a carriage sled to pass through easily. Picard entered the inn with four other passengers and they engaged the carriage for immediate departure.
    The horses were fresh, shivering and stamping in their harness, eager to be moving. Picard tossed his luggage on top and settled in by the window, joined by an elderly man and his wife, and two young women, apparently of the teaching profession, for they had taken out a textbook and were sharing it on their laps. Picard considered opening the book he had in his own coat pocket, then decided against it. The memoirs of Celeste Savidant bore a rather lurid cover and might prove upsetting to the young women, and perhaps to the old boy and his wife. It was the sort of reading matter Picard liked, but not now; a trifle inappropriate. Just relax and watch the scenery.
    “You’re going to Nuremberg, sir?” asked the old man.
    Picard nodded.
    “On business, yes?”
    “I’m a toy collector,” said Picard.
    “Ah, I see,” said the old man. His wife, a shy little Frau, whispered in her husband’s ear, and he smiled, nodding toward Picard. “Yes, if you’re a collector, you must see our friend Hermann Wilderstein. He lives in the shadow of the great Tower. I’ll write down the address for you.”
    “I’m very grateful,” said Picard. “Is Herr Wilderstein a collector?”
    “A toy maker. An excellent one.”
    “Are you familiar with the work of Robert Heron?”
    “Naturally. He is the finest in the world.”
    “Do you know him?”
    “I’ve seen him about. You’ll find his shop. It’s near the... isn’t it near the Hauptmarkt, mama?”
    The old woman nodded her head and smiled at Picard. Her husband, now satisfied of the stranger’s business, closed his eyes and folded his hands across his stomach. The two young women continued their lesson, in mathematics, and Picard turned toward the window. He’d been flung out of school as a boy, mathematics being only one of the things about which he had no understanding, or interest, and their voices brought back all his old feelings of insecurity, as if the lesson were being prepared for him, for the stout, stupid little Picard, hiding in the last row.
    The runners of the sleigh cut along through the snow with a softly hissing sound, and Picard took refuge in it, forgetting all voices, from the present and the past. Snow-laden trees bent low over the road, and the horses gave off a subtle perfume, the scent of vigor, of strength. Cottages appeared, fell away behind them; the old man snored quietly, and Picard looked toward the next bit of firelight and smoke, where a house and barn were nestled at the edge of the forest. The cows were standing outside the barn, and had made a tangle of paths all around it, through the snow. The farmer who’d just milked them had loaded his wagon with milk cans and was bringing it toward the road.
    The moment froze, a cheap Christmas calendar, an innocuous winterland scene become the quintessence of horror to Picard, who stared dumbfounded at each suspended detail: the smoke held in the air, unmoving, the farmer and his horse immobile as two wooden toys.
    “That is for Nuremberg,” said the old woman softly, destroying the spell, setting free the smoke, the farmer, the horse, and Picard, whose heart began beating again. The old man muttered in his sleep, and she touched his sleeve. He woke, looked around him in puzzlement for a moment, then smiled at Picard.
    “Your toys, sir, do they bring a good price