Fata Morgana by William Kotzwinkle Page B

in other parts of Europe?”
    “Depending on who has made them,” said Picard nervously, looking out the window, turning back to be sure the farmer and his horse did not again become creatures of ice. He faced the old man, tried to smile. “The toys of Robert Heron...”
    “Of course, they’ll fetch the best price, as well they should. A remarkable craftsman.”
    “I’ve heard he even makes a fortune-telling machine.”
    “I’ve never seen it, but I can tell you this—old Heron knows a thing or two. He’s a strange fellow, Heron is. A trifle mad, yes?”
    The old woman shook her head no, and clucked her tongue in disapproval. Her husband cleared his throat, changed his tone. “You’re right, mama, old Heron isn’t mad. He’s—a visionary. Yes, that’s the better word. Old Heron is a visionary. His father was the same way; a watchmaker, but what a watchmaker! He built a clock— you should have seen it, sir—a clock that had angels circling on it, and peculiar little animals, and there were entrances and exits and hallways in this clock. It was enormous, bigger than two men, and as the hands went round the various figures danced, synchronized with the hands of time. It was in the town hall for years and then —then, I think it was presented as a gift to a visiting king. Anyway, sir, you see what I mean—Robert Heron came by his gift honestly, for his father was one of our city’s great masters.”
    The old man turned toward the window. More houses had appeared, and other sleighs were moving on the side roads, and on the main road. The spires of a cathedral appeared in the distance, rising out of the storm. Then the clouds parted for a moment and thousands of snowcapped roofs could be seen.
    “There is the Tower,” said the old man, pointing to the ancient castle that sat upon the rock heights of Nuremberg. “Herr Wilderstein lives just next to it. You will find him most hospitable.”
    The huge rock walls of the city loomed up, snow-covered, silent, unmanned; the city was at peace. The sled entered with many others, and fell in behind a brewer’s wagon, which bore its barrels of beer undeterred by the storm. On the sidewalks, the shopkeepers were shoveling out side by side with home owners. The windows of the restaurants and beer gardens were only just beginning to lose their frosty designs as inner fires warmed them, and children pummeled the passing sleds with snowballs, one of which crashed against the glass just beyond Picard’s face. He started, saw the answer to the entire case, and lost it. His mind raced frantically, seeking to overtake the half-formed intuition, but it was gone, back into the land of shadows, leaving him with only a single impression, of glass which must shatter—a breaking bottle on a ship’s bow, a window broken by stones, a crystal ball flung against the wall.
    “There is a hotel on the next corner,” said the old man. “You won’t be uncomfortable there. Not too expensive either.”
    Picard rapped on the driver’s window, and the sled was drawn over to the doorway of the hotel. A servant came immediately and received Picard’s luggage. The old man leaned out the window. “I trust you’ll find the toys you seek. If I can find any old ones in my attic I’ll send them round to you... Ah no, mama says I cannot. We must hang on to them for the grandchildren. So—there’s the value... goodbye then...”
     
    * * *
     
    The hotel staff was still shoveling, and Picard watched them from his window as he changed into his Norfolk jacket. The knickerbocker trousers, ending just below the knee, would make snow-walking easier. The socks were thick, would turn the water.
    He tugged on the tweed cap he always wore with the Norfolk, an Irish creation whose brim had been bent through the years into a smoothly rounded arch. Fastening the belt of his jacket, he observed with some pleasure that it closed one notch tighter. Traveling has taken off some of the spread; let me just