The Velvet Lady, 1995


Topless bars, I’ve always loved them since they

first showed up on the urban scene. If I

could get over the blank looks on the dancers’

faces, if I could get over how many of

the working strippers that I’ve known relied

on heroin or speed to keep going,

I might spend half my life in this dim place.

How would you like to take off your clothes

in front of strangers, how would you care for

all those cruel cutting remarks the drunken

men shout up, if it was you dancing by

a pole? I’ve seen guys bring their girlfriends on

dates, as if they’re out to convert them to

lesbians.  I never spend a pile of

money. The mafia fuckers who run

these joints got men to park the car for you.

I park for free down the street. They charge you

when you go in, they charge you heavy for

the drinks. I like to watch the cash move in

the place, how it’s put in a dancer’s G-string,

or set on a tray. Always there’s a guy going

up and down these steps on the side to the

locked office high above the main floor where

there’s windows to watch what’s going on down

below, plus protection from a hold-up.

Gals come up to you and ask if they can

sit at your table; for more they cuddle

on your lap. My former stepson works here.

Jay spins the tunes. Jay calls the gals on his

shift his “stable.” If they don’t share some of

the tips they get, he’ll put crappy tracks on

that makes then fumble their strip-dance steps.

On the PA Jay makes constant tired

jokes about married men that cannot get

love at home. Jay sounds as bored as he is.

He’s married though his wife left. I did get

talking to one waitress. I’d stop often.

One time she pulled to the side her spandex

shirt and flashed a breast. I don’t know why I

liked it. In the genes? I’ve seen plenty of

breasts, but her daring made me feel good, shall

I say freer? A salaried man craves a

taste of freedom. She will put her hand on

your shoulder for a moment when she brings

a drink, or when you’re talking.  I know it’s

a trick to up her tips. The magic in

her cynical touch touches me. I used

to be a magician before I went

to work in an insurance office. She

hopes to create an act so I share

with her a few illusions she might use.

I want to think she cares for me. She is

raising a child by herself. I could be

of help, but I know it’s all an act. These

men at the club are so crazy lonely,

they’ll blow a week of pay on some babe that

sits on their lap nearly naked. Zombie

eyes should tell them she’s sealed her heart away.

They’re so pathetic, I’m pathetic too.

The dream of sex is a dream of freedom,

Around this place the dream seems to enslave.

Visiting Mom In San Angelo, Texas

Steam has swollen shut her motel door. 

I stand outside in the cold pushing. The door breaks free in a Velcro sound. 

My mother’s got four pots of water steaming on her little stove. I’m feeling heroic, the princely son rescuing his mother from the dungeon damp motel. 

She’s eating on her bed a can of sardines using a plastic spoon. I’ve driven through many cold miles of semi-desert for her birthday. 

She used to like to read Victorian novels, so I’ve brought a Charles Dickens in large print, wrapped in what I see now is Christmas paper covered with green trees. 

“Opps!” I say,” at least the paper’s festive”.

“I only watch sports on TV,” she says. Mother claims to love to live alone. I’m starting to think it’s true. Twenty-five years she hasn’t tried again to kill herself. 

I think mom’s pleased I’ve come, asking me to bring her Saltine crackers from a top shelf. 

“See if you can fix that running toilette.” 

These Eternal Works so Wondrous



Fall 1787

Niels stopped in the street of Nybrogade, Copenhagen, the baroque, yellow, three-story House of Assistance dominating his field of view. A former noble mansion now converted into a towering public pawnbroker. He could not enter himself; the loss of social status if someone saw him would be intolerable. A small sliver of respectability was nearly all the family had left.

He turned right into the yard behind the house. About a dozen middle-aged women loitered in the yard, leaning against the walls, walking in aimless patterns. A murmur of conversation filled the air, and the stench from a nearby slaughterhouse was omnipresent. No one stayed here for long if they didn't need to.

One of the women approached Niels and he handed her the old brown coat he carried with him. “Eight skilling,” said the woman, and Niels nodded. She went into the house and returned several minutes later without the coat but with a newly minted pawn store receipt.
Niels exchanged the money for the receipt. The amount written on the paper was significantly less than the value of the cheap coat. He sighed, pocketed the receipt, and turned back home.

His mother, Anne, met him in the small room she rented in Fortunsstræde and looked at the note with disdain.
“That’s not gonna pay the rent, much less feed both you and your sister. Go pawn the note somewhere else, will you?”

Niels did not bother to argue. The pawnshop note, allowing the holder to redeem the original item for cheap, had value and could itself be pawned. Layers upon layers of loans.
This time he went to a private pawnbroker. The old Jew running the store looked at the note and offered Niels a few skilling. Niels did not haggle.

“I don’t suppose you can take some items off my hands as well?”
The old Jew shook his head. “You know the law. Only the state can accept personal property as collateral. A pawn note is not property.”
“I know, but The House doesn’t pay much. I know that some private pawnbrokers skirt the rules…”
“I wouldn’t know,” said the old Jew, unfazed.
Heidenreich went home, aware that the extra skilling would not be enough.

He tutored the children of a local barber three hours per day. He provided lessons in German and Math for adults. On his breaks, he would sometimes leaf through his old math textbook, trying to prove unprovable theorems. He had been quite the prodigy in his school days. If only he could find an opportunity to use his talents. To change the world.

At night he dreamed, the book in his lap.
A world of eternal truths unfolded around him, familiar and comforting. He leaned against the cool edge of a nearby parallelogram and admired the shapes, postulates, and propositions surrounding him. Abstract and immutable.

Something felt different, though. He frowned. Nothing should ever feel different here.
Movement behind a nearby theorem.
Niels narrowed his eyes, but the shape had gone before he could get a clear view. He pushed himself away from the parallelogram and walked across the surface of axioms and concepts.

The theorem was a not very interesting one concerning the divisibility of various integers. There was no sign of the moving shape.
He turned and saw the shape again, moving through a forest of theorems. This time it did not disappear. He moved closer. The shape emerged from the forest, moving towards him. It refused to come into focus. Everything else in this place was so sharp and crisp. The shape moved on legs. Four maybe? It shone, making his eyes water. Light billowed behind it like a mane.

As it approached, he heard a thundering sound, like hooves on marble.
He blinked against the golden light, feeling warmth on his face. As his eyes adjusted, he noticed another shape close to the shining one. A shape of pure darkness, absorbing the light, four-legged, still strangely out of focus. They made him think of horses, the light and darkness forming manes around the area where their heads should be.

“You see us?” There was no voice. Only the fact of speech.
“I do,” said Heidenreich. “I didn’t know anyone lived here. Pleased to meet you. My name is Niels Heidenreich.”
The glowing shape shimmered before him. “When last I spoke to one of your kind, they called me Skinfaxi, and my brother, Hrímfaxi.”

The dark shape bowed its head, the mane billowing.
“That sounds familiar,” said Niels.
“Yes,” said the dark shape. “Some of you remember.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Travelling,” said the bright one.
“In the realm of math? Why?”

“This is not merely the realm of math.” said the dark one “It is the realm of the eternal. There is a limit to how fast one can travel in physical reality. Here, there is no time, no limits.”
“Oh,” said Niels. “I only come here when I am thinking about math.”
“Let us show you something,” said the bright one.
They both turned and walked away, manes billowing with light and darkness. Niels followed.

They arrived at a chair.
“I had no idea this place was furnished,” said Niels.
“This is not a chair,” said Skinfaxi. “It is Chair, the essence of which all individual chairs are mere shadows.”
On closer inspection of Chair, Niels noticed a distinct lack of specificity. This was not a particular chair.
“So, all chairs are just copies of this one? Like a blueprint?”

“In a sense,” said Hrímfaxi. “But each chair has its variations.”
“So, if I had access to such a blueprint, I could produce copies…” Niels was lost in thought for a moment. When he came back, both strange beings were gone, along with Chair.

“Where did you go?” he asked, looked around, and woke up.
He blinked against the light, still half asleep. On the table nearby, he noticed the receipt from pawning the note from the pawnshop, and an idea formed in his head. He picked up the receipt and scrutinized the details.

The next day, he pawned an old pair of shoes, studying the pawn note as he went.
On the way home, he spent his last cash buying tin plates from a tinker, tools for engraving, waxes, rollers, wooden boards, and paper.
He retrieved a quill and ink from a drawer in his room and went to work.

Several hours later, he wiped the sweat from his forehead and studied the engraved note on his desk. It testified that an old hat had been pawned for the sum of twenty-five skilling.
The old Jew accepted the note without question and gave him ten skilling in return. Niels gave most of the money to his mother.

Emboldened by his success more notes soon followed. Niels managed to pay off most of his mother's local debts and redeemed some of the items they had pawned at the House. The morality of the forgery did not bother him. The government 'helped' the poor by loaning them money, ensuring that they were kept securely in their place by chains of debt. This was a way of breaking those chains.

He procured new tools, to produce more complex notes. He drew an outline of the note in question on a piece of paper with a pencil, added a thin layer of wax and pressed a smooth, cool tin plate down on top. A drop of hot wax rolled down his arm, but he was too engrossed in the work to notice the pain. After removing the paper, the pencil drawing was visible on the wax surface. He stuck a pin through the wax, following the drawing, engraving the letters and patterns on the plate.

The back of the note was likewise engraved on another tin plate.
With a small printing roller, he used the plates to transfer the patterns to a new note. With a pen, he added signatures to the finished note.
When he finished, it was getting dark. He turned on a lamp and placed the new note next to the original.
Original note:

“One rigsdaler.” Leaf ornaments. “If any man dares to strike any coin without the King’s leave, or in any way counterfeits the King’s coin, his honor, life, and estate shall be forfeit.” Signed: “Vestergaard”.
New note:
“One rigsdaler.” Leaf ornaments. “If any man dares to strike any coin without the King’s leave, or in any way counterfeits the King’s coin, his honor, life, and estate shall be forfeit.” Signed: “Vesergaard”.
Perfect.
* * *
January 1790
Guards armed with morning stars surrounded Niels and his fellow prisoners as they were led down the street and across Knippelsbro Bridge to Christianshavn. The water below glittered in the sunlight. A few specks of snow fluttered lazily through the air.

A long tail of curious onlookers followed close behind them, and the guards clutched their weapons. It was not unheard of for the mob to try to free prisoners that they felt were innocent or treated unfairly.
As they reached the bridge over Christianshavn’s canal, he saw the imposing dark red walls of the House of Discipline, Rasping, and Improvement rising in front of him. With the tower sprouting from the center, surrounded by lesser spires along the central section, it looked like a stately government building. Only the guards by the doors and the bars in the windows revealed its true nature.

Niels had had plenty of time to learn about his new home. The front entrance led into the House of Discipline, used for punishing prisoners who had committed serious crimes. 

Behind it, lay the House of Improvement, for resocialization of prisoners who had committed lesser offenses, with shorter sentences. 
Between the two, the worst of the prisoners spend their day with forced labor in the House of Rasping, rasping campeche bloodwood into toxic red powder, to be used for dyeing wool and textiles. The inmates had only their work to keep them warm. The bloodwood was so flammable that all fire was prohibited.

Niels would be staying in the House of Discipline, for life. He was lucky. The penalty for counterfeiting was usually death. As the doors closed behind them, he was already composing his first application for a pardon.
* * *
Recipe for Bone Soup
Serves 500 people.
125 pounds of bone powder.

6 pounds of horse meat.
3 bushels of pearl barley.
Herbs.
Salt.
Add the ingredients to a few hundred liters of water and boil for an hour.
Stir during serving, to prevent the bone powder from precipitating.

How do hundreds of inmates subsist on soup made from boiled bone powder and a few pounds of meat?
Who cares?

Death comes for us all. For the inmates in the House of Discipline, Rasping, and Improvement, he does not dawdle. 
To delay the deaths for a while longer, the House supplements the diet with bread and beer in the evening, horse soup every other day, peas and pork every fourth Sunday.
For many inmates, the monthly pork is their only source of joy.
* * *
1796
Someone knocked on the door of the cell. Niels looked up from the book on chemistry he had been reading. His room was not large by normal standards, but by the standards of the House, it was practically palatial. Very few prisoners had their own room. Very few prisoners had the education to teach the others.

Books of physics, chemistry, and mathematics covered the shelves by the walls. A three-armed silver candlestick stood on a small table in the center, looking out of place in the spare room, like jewelry worn by a beggar. Niels reclined on his bunk.

It was unusual for people to knock. This was, after all, still a prison, and guards entered when they wished.
Jacob Poulsen, the melancholic murderer, waited outside the door. He was more than a head taller than Niels, and muscles bulged beneath his guard uniform.
“Heidenreich,” he said. “You have been requested.”

Only a fool would argue with a guard who yearned for death. Years earlier, Poulsen had murdered a small child, hoping for the executioner’s sword. Suicides went straight to hell; murderers could gain absolution. The state thwarted his desire and sentenced him to life, the worst possible sentence for a melancholic murderer. His strength and fearless nature made him useful for guarding the other inmates.

They walked through the labyrinthine halls of the House of Discipline, Rasping, and Improvement, filled with the sounds of prisoners engaged in their daily labor, stopping at a small, reinforced wooden door. 
Jacob opened the door without a word and Niels gasped. Outside, busy people walked down the street of Dronningensgade, sights, sounds, and smells wafting in through the open door.

“I don’t understand…” said Niels.
“Go.” said the guard. “Follow the bird.”
He pushed the dazed Niels through the door, which shut behind him. Niels blinked against the sunlight, overwhelmed by the onslaught of sensory impressions.
“Squack!” came a sound to his right. He turned and saw a strange sight.

The bird stood around three feet tall, with a black back and a white belly. A white patch of plumage surrounded each eye. Grooves covered its hooked black beak. A dark leather collar surrounded its neck.

It flapped its small black wings and repeated the sound. “Squack!”
Without waiting for an answer, the bird turned and waddled down the street on wide flippers. The other pedestrians paid it no mind.
They walked through the streets of Copenhagen, while Heidenreich savored the outdoor air. Sure, the air of the city smelled like shit, piss, and sweat, but it was fresh shit, piss, and sweat, the smell of freedom and life. He enjoyed the sunlight caressing his face.

The bird stopped in front of the door to a small house, hidden in shadows at the end of an alley. Behind the drapes covering the two windows, Niels thought he detected movement inside. He had long since lost any sense of place.
“Squack!” said the bird and flapped its wings.


Niels shook his head and emerged from his reverie.

He knocked on the front door, which opened without a sound, and he stepped into a dark entrance hall. A well-dressed servant emerged from the shadows and took his coat.
“Mr. Heidenreich. You are expected. Follow me.”

He walked through a nearby door. Behind him, Niels heard the flippers of the bird shuffling across the carpet.
He followed the servant into a dining hall occupied by a large oblong table with rounded corners. The dark-brown mahogany surface shone in the sunlight entering from the large windowpanes, and motes of dust danced in the beams. A faint smell of roasted meat made Niels’ mouth water, but the table was empty.

Five men sat around the table. All wore black coats, black waistcoats, and white shirts, as if expecting an important guest. All looked at Niels as he entered.
The man at the edge of the table, at the opposite end of the room, looked old and thin. He wore a long white beard and a white mustache. His head was balding but brown hair still flowed along the sides. The bird waddled to his side, and he caressed its head.

The man to his right looked slightly younger, with a clean-shaven face, wearing a curly wig. Niels recognized him as Professor Christian Kratzenstein, the author of the very first textbook on experimental physics published in the Kingdom of Denmark. In the past, Niels had dreamed of being a scientist or engineer, but education required money.
Next to Kratzenstein sat a middle-aged man with a round face and curly brown hair. Niels did not recognize him.

The man to the left of the thin old man was the youngest of the group. He appeared to be in his mid-twenties with short brown hair. 
The fifth and final attendant looked middle-aged, with a round head and a prominent forehead, balding, with gray hair at the sides and the back.

All studied Niels as he entered the room.
“Good evening, Mr. Heidenreich,” said the man at the edge of the table. “We have been expecting you. Please take a seat. My name is Ole Worm.”
Niels sat down at the other end of the table. “Ole Worm, like the famous natural historian from last century?”
The man smiled, causing his mustache to wiggle. “Indeed. You could say that I honor his memory. Let me introduce my companions.”
“You are no doubt familiar with Professor Kratzenstein. He has made quite a name for himself, teaching experimental science here in Copenhagen.”

“The man next to him is Johann Dippel, an accomplished alchemist.”
“The young man at my side is Henrik Steffens, up-and-coming philosopher.”
And the last of my companions is Doctor Franz Joseph Gall, an expert in the study of the human brain.”

He focused his gaze on Niels.
“And you, my friend, is Niels Heidenreich, a prodigy in the fields of mathematics, science, and engineering. Sadly, you have fallen quite short of your full potential.”

“Thank you,” said Niels. “What’s with the bird?”
The man calling himself ‘Ole Worm’ patted the bird on its head. “This is my pet Great Auk, but just call him Auk. I have trained him well.”
“Squack!” said Auk.

The servant brought food and wine, roasted duck with vegetables and potatoes. The aroma filled the air, and Niels ate without question. His diet lately had been better than average for a prisoner, but that still only made it edible, not pleasant. Mostly, he subsisted on bread and scones, bought with his teaching salary. He was afraid that saying anything might end this weird dream.

Ole Worm wiped his mouth. “You are no doubt wondering why you are here.”
Niels nodded while stuffing the remaining pieces of duck into his mouth.
“The Masters told us to bring you,” said Worm.
“The Masters,” intoned the others, nodding.
“The Masters?” asked Niels.
“The Masters of Light and Darkness,” said Worm. “They informed me that you have met.”
“Oh, the horsy things?” said Niels.

“...Yes, the horsy things. Your ability to perceive the realm of the eternal made a great impression on them. Most people can only hope to glimpse them, mostly in dreams. You managed to converse with them. Dr. Gall, did you want to test your hypothesis.”
Dr. Gall’s face lit up. “Of course.” From beneath the table, he produced an ornate wooden box, opened it, and retrieved a tape measure and a silver cranium caliper.
He rose from his chair and approached Niels.
“Please sit still, Mr. Heidenreich”.
Niels complied and felt the cool tips of the caliper against his skull,
“Hmmm,” said Dr. Gall and moved the caliper.
“Hmmm.”
And again.
“Hmmm.”

Dr. Gall took a step to the side and addressed his four companions.
“It is as I suspected. This man has an extremely developed art center. That explains his affinity for mathematics and engineering. I suspect that this art center also acts as a natural conduit to the Masters.”
He returned to his place at the table; put away the measure and the caliper.

Ole Worm took a piece of paper from his coat pocket. Niels recognized it immediately.
“One rigsdaler,” said Worm and smiled. “You could at least have aimed a bit higher. We can help you achieve your full potential. Like everyone here, you have an innate connection to the realm of the Masters. A conduit to the eternal. Even in prison, you excel. Not only do you teach the other prisoners, but we understand that you are also training as a goldsmith and watchmaker. The Royal Chamber of Arts have you perform minor repairs on their artifacts.”

“Thank you again,” said Niels. “The Director was very pleased with the six-armed silver candlestick I made him. But I don’t see how you can help me. I am sentenced to life.”
“Sentences are fluid,” said Worm. “If you agree to serve The Masters, your situation will soon improve.”

“Of course,” said Niels. “What do I have to lose?”
All five attendants clapped.
The servant removed the plates and glasses.
“Follow the bird,” said Worm. “We will be in touch.”
“Squack!” said the Auk and waddled towards the door.
On his way through the door, Niels snuck a look behind him and blinked. For a moment, it seemed like only two people were sitting at the table: The young man and Dr. Gall. He shook his head and continued through the door, onto the street, following the waddling bird, once more enjoying the smells.

As before, no one seemed to notice the strange couple walking through the winding streets. Jacob held the door when he returned. He felt like patting the bird on the head, but when he turned, it was gone.
The door slammed behind him, replacing the fresh smells of the street with the stale ones of the House.

Later, Niels asked the deacon to check if Professor Kratzenstein had written any new books lately, claiming that he was considering teaching basic scientific principles to the students.
The answer came the next day: Professor Christian Kratzenstein had died the year before.
* * *
1797
“Heidenreich,” said the melancholic murderer. “The director wants to see you.”
He was standing in the doorway. This time, he had not bothered to knock. Niels put his books away and followed him to the director’s office.

Director Koefoed sat behind his desk, looking the same as always. He was reading a letter. There was no one else in the office.
He beamed at Niels when he entered. “Sit down, Mr. Heidenreich.”
Niels sat down on the chair and licked his lips.
“Don’t worry,” said Koefoed. “It’s good news.”
He handed the letter to Niels.

Niels skimmed the letter, and one specific sentence grabbed his full attention: “Due to the presented circumstances, it pleases his Majesty to decree that Niels Heidenreich can be released.”
“Congratulations!” cried Koefoed. “But that is not all.”
He pushed another document across the desk to Niels.
“This is a letter of commendation from the magistrate, permitting you to set up shop as a goldsmith and watchmaker. You will be a free master, independent of the guild, but without the ability to take on apprentices.”
“I understand,” said Niels and took the letter, feeling dazed.

“But that is still not all!” continued Koefoed. “We understand that starting a new business will take time and effort. We are therefore willing to keep you employed as a teacher at the House. Since you are now a free man, we will double your salary, to fifty rigsdaler per year.”
Niels walked through the gates of the House as a free man with steady employment, carrying a letter of recommendation.
* * *
1799
There was a knock on the door, and Niels looked up from his work. Tools, machines, and lathes occupied most of the surrounding room, and the air smelled of dust and sweat. On a table nearby, a newspaper page proclaimed: “Watchmaker Niels Heidenreich in Copenhagen grinds eight pairs of optical lenses simultaneously on a custom-made machine!”

Niels opened the door and smiled. A young man in his twenties waited outside.
“Johan Philip Gall!” said Niels. “What a pleasant surprise. It’s been a while.”
The two men hugged and exchanged more greetings.
“How are you doing?” asked Niels. “Are you still at the Chamber of Arts?”

“Indeed, I am. I am a full clerk now, not an assistant, like when I used to bring you work back at the House. How about you? I hear you are working on a new project.”
Niels shrugged. “Yeah, I am making progress, but things are tight. There is still plenty of work to be done, and the lens project means I have less time for goldsmithing work. I need to make payments on my loans as well until everything is up and running.”

Gall nodded. “It’s a tough world. Tell you what, why don’t you stop by the Chamber of Arts for a tour? Most people never get the opportunity to see the King’s private collection. It’s not open to the public, but I can borrow the manager’s key whenever I want.”
Niels agreed and the two old friends parted.

A few days later, Niels showed up at the entrance to the imposing three-story building, which contained the Chamber of Arts. On his left, at the other end of the yard, the royal castle of Christiansborg blocked the setting sun. The air was pleasantly cool.
Gall waited at the entrance.
“There you are!” he said. “Come inside. The Chamber is on the top floor.”

He led Niels down a corridor, through a sturdy door, up a winding metal staircase, which creaked as they ascended.
“What’s on the lower floors?” asked Niels.
“The ground floor houses the weapons collection. The first floor is the royal library.”

They reached the top of the staircase, which terminated in another study wooden door, identical to the one below. The door opened into a long wide hall. Huge windows set into the right wall showed the plaza below and the royal castle to the right. Paintings covered the opposite wall, and dust motes shone in the air in between.
Gall walked past the paintings at a brisk pace without looking. Niels followed, trying to catch a few glimpses of the priceless works of art.
“Come on, I want to show you something,” said Gall.

The wall at the opposite end of the hall contained another door, this one partially blocked by a huge pile of old books, covering nearly the entire wall. The wall to the left contained yet another door, surrounded by painting on both sides.

“Why is there a big pile of books in the gallery?” asked Niels.
Gall retrieved his keychain and unlocked the door to the left. “The library was flooded recently, so we are storing some of the damaged books up here.”
He opened the door and walked through, gesturing for Niels to follow. They stepped into a room filled with paintings and busts made of wax, bronze, marble, and plaster.
“This is the Hall of Heroes,” said Gall.

Niels recognized a few kings and queens among the busts but did not have time to study the rest in any detail. Gall walked through the room without looking at any of the pieces, through a door on the opposite side.
Niels followed into the next room.

Priceless treasures surrounded them. The glass cabinets along the walls contained all kinds of jewelry and intricate artifacts. Gold, silver, and brass reflected the light from the windows on the right wall. Niels slowed down, feeling like he was walking on sacred ground.
“This is the Hall of Antiquities,” said Gall and stopped by a cabinet at the center of the left wall. Two large curved golden horns dominated the room. One was slightly longer than the other. Both were divided into segments adorned with intricate figures.

“You gotta see this,” said Gall and unlocked the cabinet.
He fetched the longest of the horns and waved it in the air, leaving glittering after-images floating before Niels' eyes.
“These are the greatest pieces of the collection. There are like 15 pounds of gold here. Listen to this.”

He put the horn to his mouth and blew. A dulcet tone reverberated through the room. Niels felt dizzy and leaned against a nearby cabinet. For a moment, he thought he saw a glowing shape materialize behind Gall. He blinked, and the shape disappeared.

“Feel how heavy it is,” said Gall and handed the horn to Niels, who accepted it, dumbfounded. The metal felt slick and cool against his palms. His hands tingled.
Niels studied the figures on the horn. Snakes and fish, centaurs, figures with the heads of dogs, riders on horseback, two men playing a board game. What story were they trying to tell?

“Check out the other one,” said Gall and snatched the long horn from Niels, replacing it with its smaller cousin. The smaller horn was a bit lighter but had similar figures inscribed on its six segments.
“This one is missing a piece,” said Gall. “The horns are believed to have been the same size, originally.”

A series of runes circumscribed the wide end of the horn, below the opening.
“What does this say?” He asked.
“I Hlewagastiz Holtijaz made the horn,” recited Gall.

Niels turned the horn around in his hands. “Do we know anything about the creator?”
Gall shrugged. “Not really. Some people think Hlewagastiz means ‘famous guest’ or something, but no one knows. Anyway, you are a goldsmith. What did you think about the gold?”

“Uh… It seems highly pure. I would have to take them home to study if you want me to say anything more.”
Gall laughed. “Nice try. The German Alchemist J.C. Dippel has determined that the horns are made from Chymical gold, artificial gold created through alchemy, purer than the natural variety.”
Niels looked at the gleaming surface of the horn. “I couldn’t tell just from looking. Wait, did you say J.C. Dippel?”

“Yeah, do you know about him?”
“I think I may have met him…”
“Ha! Not likely. He died in ‘34.”
* * *
On their way out, Niels stopped and looked at the door behind the stack of books.
“What’s behind that door?”
Gall looked at the door without much interest. “I am not sure. I think it’s connected to the library below.”
* * *
That night, he dreamt.
Once more, he found himself in the realm of the eternal. For once, he ignored the beautiful immutability of mathematical truth; he walked through forms and axioms. As he turned the corner of a dodecahedron, the brilliance nearly blinded him. He blinked, and the light coalesced into the now familiar figure, golden mane billowing behind it.

“You saw me tonight,” said Skinfaxi.
“I did,” said Niels. “A connoisseur of art, are you?”
“The conduit summoned me. But the connection was not strong enough for me to stay.”

“I have been thinking about what you said last time. If you are using this place for traveling, why are you still here?”
“The second conduit is broken,” said Hrímfaxi, appearing from the shadow of a tesseract. “The Hlewagastiz betrayed us. The first is not sufficient on its own.”

“We require assistance,” said Skinfaxi.
“Is that why you have those scientists and philosophers working for you?”
“The human mind is a conduit,” said Hrimfaxi.

“Your mind more than others,” said Skinfaxi.
“Why would I want to help you? You are the reason I just spent nine years in prison. Your talk about forms and copies put those ideas in my head.”
“We are also the reason you are now free,” said Hrimfaxi.
“We needed to know that you are strong, resourceful,” said Skinfaxi.

“We will make it worth your while,” said Hrimfaxi.
“Why should I trust you?” asked Niels.
“Our conduits will make our wishes known,” said Skinfaxi.
Niels woke up.
* * *
“Squack!” said the Auk.
Niels opened his eyes and sighed. The weird bird stood in the middle of the room, waving its flippers, smelling faintly of guano. He blinked a few times, hoping it would disappear, but it remained.

The bird waved its right flipper in his face. “Squack!”
“Fine!” said Niels. “Give me a minute to get dressed.”
The bird waddled to the door and turned around, waiting for him to finish.
* * *
Once again, they walked through the winding streets of Copenhagen, eventually reaching the small house at the end of the alley. Niels realized that he did not remember the route.
The same servant opened the door. The same five people sat around the table. Niels sat down in the same chair.
“I suppose I should thank you for freeing me,” he said.

Ole Worm padded the head of his Great Auk. “We did more than free you, did we not? You are now a goldsmith and watchmaker with a letter of recommendation. An impressive achievement for a former counterfeiter.”
The servant brought food and wine. Pigs head with potatoes and vegetables. An apple in its mouth. Niels sampled the meat, cooked to perfection. “I suppose I should be grateful, but it’s not like I am living in luxury. With all the loan payments, I barely make ends meet.”

“We can help each other,” said Worm. “Assisting us will be to your benefit as well.”
“I am not sure why I should trust you,” said Niels. “As far as I can tell, half the people in this room are dead. And you are not just honoring Ole Worm, are you?”

Ole Worm smiled. “I told them there was no point in trying to fool you. I am indeed Olaus Wormius. I was the first to recognize the significance of the conduits. The Masters have rewarded me with the capacity to serve them.”
“The Masters transcend time,” said Dippel, the alchymist. “To serve them is to serve eternity.”
“A new golden age approaches,” said Steffens, the young man, the philosopher.

“What do you propose?” asked Niels.
“You visited the Chamber of Arts recently,“ said Worm. “You saw the horns up close.”
“You felt the chymical gold in your hands,” said Dippel. “You touched eternity.”
“And?” said Niels.
“Steal them,” said Worm.
“I beg your pardon?”

“The conduits are broken,” said Worm. “The Masters have arrived from a distant world to guide humanity. Now they find themselves unable to complete the last leg of the journey, due to the betrayal of a disloyal servant.”
“How does stealing them help? You can repair them?”
“All will be revealed in due time,” said Worm. “Once the horns are in your possession, you will hear from us. Do this and you will become one of the trusted servants of the Masters. Money will no longer be a concern to you.”

“How am I supposed to pull this off? The Chamber is heavily guarded.”
“You know the clerk at the Chamber,” said Worm. “You can visit whenever you wish. You will figure something out.”
“You are a resourceful man,” said Georg Kratzenstein. “I would have liked to have you as a student.”
“I will think about it,” said Niels.

Worm clapped his hands together. “Of course. Only a fool would rush to such a decision. I have faith that you will reach the proper conclusion. Follow the bird.”
“Squack!” said the Auk and waddled through the door.
Niels followed and soon found himself back at his workshop. The bird was gone. He had no recollection of the path they had taken.
* * *
A few weeks later, Niels visited the Chamber of Arts again. This time, a small group of visitors accompanied him. While Gall took the visitors into the Hall of Heroes, Niels stayed behind, inspecting the door behind the books.

He moved a few stacks of books and tried the door. To his relief, it opened. He would not need to ask Gall for the key.
He went through the door and stepped into a reading room, containing a few tables and chairs, as well as a small stove. Two people sat at two of the tables, engrossed in old books. Neither of them paid any attention to Niels. The air was a bit too cold and smelled like dust and old books.

The door to the left contained a wooden door, which also opened, revealing another door, made of iron. The iron door was also unlocked. Behind it, a winding staircase led down. Niels descended the staircase.
The staircase reached another wooden door. It opened into a huge library hall containing countless priceless books and a handful of old men. He closed the door and continued his descent.

The staircase terminated at a door on the ground floor. He opened it and stepped into a small vestibule. A door in the other end of the vestibule led to an entryway terminating in a lattice gate.
He opened the lattice and stepped onto Tøjhusgade. The sun blinded him for a moment, and he took the opportunity to think. Five doors and a lattice gate from the street the Chamber of Arts; then the door to the Hall of Heroes, assuming they locked it at night; wooden doors but one made of metal.

He retraced his steps. At the top of the winding staircase, he retrieved his house key and tried it in the locks of the two doors leading to the reading room. To his surprise, it fit quite well.
He entered the Hall of Antiquities as Gall blew the horn, to the great delight of the mesmerized visitors.
* * *
May 1802
Twilight fell on the city of Copenhagen. Guards patrolled the plaza between the royal castle and the building which housed the Chamber of Arts.

Niels Heidenreich walked through the growing shadows, through the gate towards the royal library. He unlocked the latticed gate with a key from his pocket. Since his last official visit, he had bought and modified several keys, testing them one by one during the opening hours of the library.

He unlocked the door to the vestibule with another key and used the same key to open the door to the winding staircase. He ascended the staircase in the dark, quietly, until he reached the top floor. Using his house key, he opened both the iron door and the wooden door behind it, entering the cold reading room. His house key unlocked the door between the reading room and the gallery as well.

He stopped in front of the door to the Hall of Heroes and took a deep breath. Retrieving his final key, he unlocked the door to the hall. As he turned the key in the lock, it snapped in two with a sharp sound, like a fingerbone breaking, leaving the bit inside. Niels pushed the door open and stepped into the hall.

The twilight filtering through the windows illuminated the faces of ancient kings, queens, and pioneers. Niels felt their gazes explore every part of his body as he walked towards the Hall of Antiquities.
The horns shone, seeming to illuminate the chamber with a luminescent glow.

Niels wrapped a hand in a piece of cloth and broke the glass with nary a sound. Shards scattered across the floor, reflecting the moonlight. He reached through the opening and retrieved the longest of the horns. The gleaming metal felt cool to the touch. The figures inscribed on the surface seemed to dance in the faint light of the evening.
He thought for a few seconds, shrugged, and blew a tiny gust of air into the end of the horn. A nearly inaudible sound filled the room, hovering in the air. The room shimmered, losing a bit of definition, becoming less sharp. The horn vibrated in his hands, inscriptions caressing his palms.

The twilight coalesced into a gleaming shape in the corner.
“There you are,” said Niels. “Mind telling me why we are doing this?”
“You have your instructions,” said Skinfaxi, without making a sound.

“From your servants. I want to hear it from you.”
“We have traveled across distances you cannot imagine, from another world, to guide Humanity. The conduits were necessary for the final step of the journey, but they cannot function in their current state.”
“So, you want me to fix them?”
The shape billowed like a moving thundercloud. “We will be in touch.”
The room was empty again. Niels retrieved the second horn; the moonlight filled the space in the cabinet, replacing the brilliance with cool silver.

Niels returned to the street, leaving the doors open behind him. About half an hour had passed since he entered.
“Halt!”
Niels froze. Two royal guards approached from the street. Dammit. They were not following their normal patrol patterns. 
Animated by an impulse he could not explain, Niels blew lightly into the short end of the horn. The sound seemed to hover in the air, the surroundings shimmering like a mirage.
The guards stopped.

“Go away,” whispered Niels. “Forget about this.”
The guards turned around and walked in the opposite direction.
He waited for them to turn the corner and then hurried down the street, heading for home.
* * *
A knock on the door woke him from his sleep the next morning. Niels opened his eyes and blinked against the morning sunlight. His clothes reeked of sweat and dust. He looked at the drawers, where he had stashed the horns. Still securely locked.
He rose from the bed, moved to the door, and opened it. A young man with short brown hair waited outside. It took Niels a few moments to recognize him. 

“Mr. Steffens,” he said.
“Please, call me Henrik”, said the young philosopher. “May I come in?”
Niels shrugged. “Sure. I’m surprised you didn’t send the bird.”
Steffens went inside and sat down on a small stool; Niels took the bed.
“I understand that it is done,” said Steffens.
“The first part anyway. You still haven’t told me the details of your plan.”

Stephens looked around the workshop, resting his gaze on each of Niels’ tools and machines in turn.
“I will be going for a walk soon,” he said.
Niels raised an eyebrow but did not reply.
“On the first Thursday of June, I will be going for a walk with a young Danish poet named Adam Oehlenschläger. The morning after, you will melt down the horns.”
Niels jumped to his feet. “What?”

Steffens smiled. “I believe you heard me.”
“I thought you needed my skills to repair the broken one?”
Steffens shook his head. “Sadly, no. They are beyond repair and useless in their current state. Destroying them will release their energies, allowing us to harness them for other purposes.”
“These are priceless artifacts…”

“It is too late to have second thoughts now. You will do as instructed, and you will be rewarded.”
Niels sat down again. “What am I supposed to do with all that gold?”
Steffens laughed. “That’s part of the reward. You can do whatever you want with it. Gold is gold. No one will know where it came from.”
Steffens rose from his chair. “The gold is only the beginning. Once it is done, your true reward will be much greater.”

He walked to the door, opened it, and stopped on the threshold. He turned his head and nodded to Niels, a sly smile playing on his face.
The door closed behind him as he left.
Niels sat on the bed for several minutes without moving. He paced the room for a while, opened the drawers, and looked at each horn in turn. The figures on the surfaces smiled back at him.

* * *
On a lovely summer day in June, Henrik Steffens met with the young poet Adam Oehlenschläger. Steffens received Oehlenschläger at his apartment at 11 AM, and the two men engaged in a vigorous discussion. Steffens had recently returned from a field trip to Germany and was getting ready to introduce the Danish intelligentsia to the wonders of German Romanticism.

Later that day, they went to a restaurant, continuing their discussion over beef and wine.
After lunch, they walked through the park of Søndermarken, talking about spontaneity, natural genius, and divine inspiration through the contemplation of nature.
They arrived back at Steffens’s apartment later that evening.

When they finally stopped talking, it was 3 AM. They had spoken for sixteen hours. Oehlenschläger slept on the couch.
* * *
The first tender rays from the sun had barely emerged from the horizon. Niels Heidenrich stood wide awake in his workshop, looking at the two horns on the table.
The red-hot glow from the crucible illuminated the room. Heated air caressed his face, carrying smells of smoke and iron.
Using a pair of tongs, Niels picked up the broken horn, took a deep breath, and placed it in the crucible.

At first, he half expected the horn to resist the process, to shrug off the heat and remain unaffected. Then, it started to collapse, losing its shape and integrity, like a melting candle. The intricate figures on the surface wavered like a mirage and dissipated as the horn morphed into amorphous golden gloop.
* * *
Oehlenschläger awoke in the morning, unable to sleep. Struck by sudden inspiration, he jumped out of bed, got dressed, and half-ran home to his apartment in Vestergade, only a few blocks from Heidenreich’s workshop at Studiestræde.

He grabbed a pen and paper, and started writing:
“Upon the pages
Of the olden ages,
And in hills where are lying

The dead, they are prying;
On armour rusty,
In ruins musty,
On Rune-stones jumbled,
With bones long crumbled.”

(All poetry is excerpted from Oehlenschläger’s poem “The Gold Horns”, translated by George Borrow. https://www.gutenberg.org/files/29124/29124-h/29124-h.htm)
* * *

Niels watched the melted gold bubble in the crucible. He looked at the remaining horn. The long one, the complete one. He looked back at the crucible.
* * *
Oehlenschläger wrote without break, possessed by a creative impulse of a strength he had never felt before. The pen flew across the page with a steady, unbroken, rhythm.

“Glimpses two from period olden
   Lo! in modern time appearing;
Strange returned those glimpses golden,
   On their sides enigmas bearing.

Holiness mysterious hovers
   O’er their signs, of meaning pond’rous;
Glory of the Godhead covers
   These eternal works so wondrous.”

He did not stop writing until the poem was complete.
* * *
Niels wiped the sweat from his face and looked with the satisfaction at the pile of golden coins and nuggets spread across the workshop table. The sun had risen, and his newly made treasures sparkled in the light from the window.

He scooped a few items into his hands and enjoyed the weight and feel of the cool metal. More than six pounds of gold adorned the small table. 
He opened a drawer and looked at the unharmed horn within. He felt the approving gazes of the figures on the surface and smiled.
* * *
Several days later, Niels inspected the result of his work. The pile on the table now comprised a large pile of coins, as well as an assortment of rings, bracelets, and shoe buckles.

He took one of the coins and turned it in his hand. One side showed the monogram of King Christian VII. The other, a crude image of the Indian goddess Lakshmi. This was a so-called East Indian gold Pagoda. No one was going to question the appearance of a gold pagoda. Gold is gold.
He filled a small pouch with pagodas and went out. Time to visit the other goldsmiths.
* * *
The money from the pagodas went towards his debt and that of his mother. His grinding machine went unused. Nonetheless, his economy improved, and he was in a good mood, one sunny Tuesday afternoon, when there came a knock on the door.
He put down the gilded belt buckle he had been working on and opened the door. A tall, plump man faced him on the side. His hair was jet black and his face was smooth. He wore a brown jacket with dark blue pants and carried a rapier at his side.

The man strode past Niels without introducing himself and without waiting for an invitation. He spun around on one foot, inspecting the workshop with a single sweeping gaze.
“Niels Heidenreich?” he asked.
“Uh, yes. Can I help you?”
The man smiled, grabbed Niels’ hand, and shook it vigorously. “Please, allow me introduce myself. I am Captain Allong Bruun. I travel with East India Trading company but often stay in Copenhagen, at tavern in Bredgade. I have proposition for you!” He spoke broken Danish, with a heavy German accent.
“I see,” said Niels.

The captain retrieved a heavy pouch from the inner pocket in his jacket and turned it upside-down. A pile of gold coins bounced on the floor, scattering in all directions.

“Pagodas!” he yelled. “In my work, I get many pagodas, but don’t have time to find good price. I understand you are pagoda expert. I sell to you cheap; you sell to other goldsmiths. Everyone is happy!”
He patted Niels on both shoulders.
The price of the pagodas was indeed quite cheap.
The captain took his payment, shook Niels’ hand so hard that his shoulder hurt, and strode through the door again without another word.
* * *
In November of 1802, Henrik Steffens lectured at Elers' Kollegium, on the topic of German Romanticism.
Niels Heidenreich attended the lecture. Students and intellectuals filled the hall, and Niels had to stand in the back, along with the crowd of people who had arrived too late to claim a seat.

The audience was quiet as Steffens ascended the podium. A ray of sunlight from the window illuminated his face as he began to speak.
He spoke of the current dark age, from which humanity would soon emerge into the light of a new golden age.
He claimed that spiritual authority resided not with the church or the state, but with the individual, in harmony with nature.

He posited that the highest authority was the singular Genius, equipped with a unique connection to the world spirit.

He winked at Niels.
The crowd erupted into rapturous applause.
* * *
With the combined income from the gold of the horn and the cheap pagodas from the Captain, Niels finally outraced his debts. His economy, and that of his family, improved. He replaced his small hand bellows with a proper metallurgical installation and expanded the goldsmithing business.
In April 1803, he had enough money saved to purchase a property at Klareboderne and hire a maid. His family moved in later that month.
Shortly after moving in, Niels woke up one morning, to find the familiar bird waiting in his bedroom. The bird made no sound; it looked at him, like a father looking at a disappointing son.

Niels arose from bed and removed his nightcap.
“I know the drill. Let me get dressed.”
The bird remained silent. The first rays of the morning sun glowed from behind the drapes.

Niels dressed in a nice coat, a hat, and a pair of pantaloons and followed the bird through the bedroom doorway, down the stairs, and out the front door. He wondered how the bird had managed to open the doors but did not bother to ask.
They walked through the streets of Copenhagen in the morning sunlight until they reached the house. The familiar five figures waited at the table. Niels took his chair without waiting for an invitation.
“Good morning,” he said, after a few quiet moments. “It has been a while.”

“Do you know why we have summoned you?” asked Ole Worm.
“Well, young Steffens here mentioned something about a reward? I followed your instructions.”

“You followed some of our instructions,” said Steffens. “The energies released when you melted the horn had the intended effect. All over the country, people are turning their attention from the material world to the world of the sublime and the eternal. Artists and poets find themselves inspired to depict nature as a window to the divine. The human mind is becoming a conduit for the Masters.”

“I am glad to hear things are going well,” said Niels. “Will there be breakfast? I am starving.”
“You should know better,” said Gall, the Phrenologist.

“We know what you did,” said Dippel.
“The effect … is subdued,” said Steffens. “Sure, artists and philosophers are flourishing, but they remain grounded in the material. The Masters remain abstracted from the world, only capable of communicating through dreams, ideas, and inspiration. They cannot guide humanity through such ungainly means.”

Niels looked at the gloomy faces surrounding the table. He was starting to realize that there would be no breakfast. “I am sorry to hear that.”
“Squack!” said the auk.

“Stop acting the fool,” said Worm. “The lack of energy means that you didn’t melt both of the horns, as instructed. You have saved one of them, wholly or partially. You must finish the job.”
“I am sorry, but you are mistaken,” said Niels. “Your calculations must be off. I have sold far more gold pagodas than I could have made from a single horn. I can show you the books.”

Ole Worm stroked the auk with his right hand. “It is obvious that you have found a cheap source of gold. How, is none of our concern. You must finish what you started.”

Niels rose from his chair. “I am not going to sit here and listen to baseless accusations. Especially, if you are not even serving breakfast. Gentlemen, I bid you a good day.”
He walked towards the door.

“Stop!” said Ole Worm. His voice slashed through the air like thunder, and Niels found himself complying. He turned around.
“Understand this,” said Worm. “If you leave this house, you will no longer have our support. You will not receive any reward. You are a counterfeiter and a thief, and you will have no protection.”

Niels thought about the reward he might receive from people with access to eternity. He thought about the power and influence they had displayed, by securing his release and giving him and his family a new lease on life. At last, he thought of the gleaming horn, securely hidden, figures dancing on its surface, whispering to him. Every other concern seemed to melt away in its radiance.

“I am sorry,” he said at last. “But you are mistaken. I have carried out my instructions. I hope that you will realize your mistake and change your mind. You are welcome to visit my home any time.”

He placed his hat on his head and left the house without looking back.
* * *
“Niels Heidenreich,” said the commissioner, a man in his early thirties, seated behind an imposing desk.
“Yes”, said Niels, seated on a hard, rickety chair on the other side of the desk.

“I am commissioner Hvidberg. Do you know why you are here?”
Niels shook his head.
“Are you familiar with a goldsmith named Regnell?”
“We have met, yes”

“Mr. Regnell claims that you sold him several gold pagodas, but that the gold turned out to be impure, of much lower carat than expected for genuine pagodas. Several coins had even been mixed with brass. Do you have any reply to these accusations?”

Niels assured him that he had acted in good faith.
“Where did you procure these pagodas?”
Niels told him about the captain. He did not mention any other source of gold pagodas.
“Captain Allong Bruun? What an odd name. Rest assured that we will get to the bottom of this matter. My men are already ransacking your house.”

Less than three days after leaving the mysterious house at the end of the alley, Niels found himself chained to the wall of a damp cell in the basement of the police station.
“Good morning,” said the commissioner the following day, from behind the same desk. Niels sat on the same chair. A police officer stood guard behind him.

“We went to the address in Bredgade. No one there has ever heard of ‘Captain Allong Bruun’. We asked around the neighborhood. Same answer. Your mother and your maid both claim that they never saw the captain. That he only ever visited when you were alone.”
Niels thought for a few moments. “Now that you mention it, that’s true. I never really thought about it.”


The commissioner leaned forward on his desk and folded his hands.
“Time to come clean, Mr. Heidenreich. You didn’t purchase these pagodas from a mysterious sea captain with a limitless supply of gold. Did you steal them or make them from stolen gold? Confess, and the state may yet show mercy!”

Niels took a deep breath. “I purchased these pagodas from Captain Allong Bruun. I do not know where he is. I am not his mother.”
The commissioner leaned back in his chair and stroked his chin.
“Very well, then. Perhaps another night in the dungeon will make you reconsider.”

The cell was cold and damp and the pile of straw on the floor provided little protection from the hard stone underneath. Nonetheless, Niels slept soundly, dreamed.

And found himself in a familiar place. There was no cold, no damp, no hardness. Only the comforting ubiquity of eternal truth.
Without knowing how, he managed to locate Chair and enjoyed the feel of the archetypal support for his behind. This was certainly superior to the rickety approximation in the commissioner’s office.

Skinfaxi and Hrímfaxi appeared, billowing; supplicants seeking an audience by his throne.

He found himself holding the horn in his right hand, like a scepter.
“You would have been rewarded,” said Skinfaxi.
“You would have avoided punishment,” said Hrimfaxi.
“You could have been our herald, our Hlewagastiz.”

“I do not want your reward,” said Niels. “I have seen the others. I do not desire to persist as a ghost, serving your designs.”
“I do not fear your punishment. You cannot stop me from coming here. What does a physical prison matter to me?”

“You will suffer,” said Hrimfaxi.
“I am familiar with the concept.”
“Your family will suffer,” said Hrimfaxi.

“Not if I beat them to it!”
He awoke, knowing what had to be done.
* * *
Another day, another interrogation by the commissioner.
“Good morning, Mr. Heidenreich,” said Hvidberg. “I trust you slept well. Have you decided to tell the truth?”

“I have,” said Niels. “I am the man who stole the golden horns from the Chamber of Arts in May of last year. I used the gold to make pagodas and invented the captain to explain where they came from.”
Silence filled the office for several minutes.

The commissioner folded his hands. “I got to hand it to you,” he said, slowly. “I did not see that coming.”
* * *
The investigation found that the gold from the pagodas, combined with the assortment of gold jewelry and buckles that Niels had also made, roughly matched the weight of the horns. This closed the case of the theft. There would be no more searching for the missing horns or the thief. He had acted alone. His family might not be showered in gold, but they would be fine; his sister had married, and her husband could support them. They would be free without him.
* * *
In a country where the gulf between rich and poor has become an abyss, an unprecedented creative renaissance is occurring.
This is the Danish Golden Age, a time in which the upper echelons of society produce great works of painting, music, and philosophy while ignoring the poverty of the masses, the bankruptcy of the state, and the firebombing of the city of Copenhagen by the British.

It is the beginning of the 19th century.
While workers toil and die in the factories, Henrik Steffens introduces Denmark to German romanticism.
While the poor starve in the streets, Søren Kierkegaard invents existentialism during a stroll in the park.

While the city burns, C.W. Eckersberg paints “Copenhagen on Fire”.
In the main penitentiary of Copenhagen, the House of Discipline, Rasping, and Improvement on Christianshavn, inmates languish under inhumane conditions for offenses that make Jean Valjean look like Patrick Bateman:

Life imprisonment for theft of two pieces of pinewood. Forced labor for impersonating a chimney sweep, insulting a civil servant, pretending to be a ghost. Even Heidenreich, the man responsible for the theft of the famous golden horns, has done nothing worse than ruin a pointless museum exhibit not even open to the public.

What are any of these actions compared to the theft of value from the labor of impoverished people working sixteen-hour days for meager wages, the children working themselves to death in the sulfur infested air of the match factories, and the smallholders working from sunrise to sunset to make a profit for the landowner?

The perpetrators of these far more serious crimes are not to be found in the House.
This summer of 1817, one man will try to change everything.
* * *
1816
Someone knocked on the door. Niels put his book down and rose from his bunk. The room had not changed much in the preceding twenty years; same bunk, same table, same bookshelves.

The collection on the shelves had grown, though. In addition to the books on physics and mathematics, it now contained several volumes of a more esoteric nature:
“De Aureo Cornu”, Olaus Wormius.

“Maladies and Remedies of the Life of the Flesh”, J.C. Dippel.
“Tentamen Resolvendi Problema”, Christian Gottlieb Kratzenstein.
“Necronomicon, eller Hjælp jeg er den gale araber Abdul Alhazred”, Danish translation by Olaus Wormius.

“Introduction to Philosophical Lectures”, Henrik Steffens.
"On the Functions of the Brain and of Each of Its parts”, Franz Joseph Gall.
Many more.

Niels opened the door and found himself face-to-face with Captain Allong Bruun. The captain wore the same brown jacket and blue trousers he had worn nearly fifteen years earlier. Carried the same rapier, though the House allowed no weapons within its walls. He pushed past the stunned Heidenreich and surveyed the room.

“Very nice!” he said. “Certainly, better than any of the other cells. I am glad to see that you are well.”
“Your Danish has improved a lot,” said Niels.
The captain sat down on the bunk and leafed through the book.
“Yes, yes, I have had a lot of years to practice. I have come to offer an alliance.”

“Why would I want to talk to you? Your shitty pagodas are the reason I am here in the first place.”
The captain threw the book on the ground and laughed heartily. “Silly goldsmith! My pagodas were flawless, yours were not. Chymical gold degrades over time. Do they not teach you the ancient secrets these days?”

He did not wait for a reply. “I am here to tell you that not everyone agrees with your imprisonment. There are …. factions.”
“Why should I trust anything you say? Everything you told me about your background was a lie. Captain Allong Bruun does not exist.”
“Ah, but you can trust me to lie,” said the captain, jacksparrowly. “And my lies always hide the truth behind their veil. You will have an opportunity soon. When you seize that opportunity, we will assist.”

He jumped to his feet and tipped his hat. “I cannot stay any longer. Remember my words!”
He strode through the door, which shut behind him, leaving the dazed Heidenreich alone in his cell.

Niels picked up the book from the floor and placed it on a shelf.
He opened the door and walked down the corridor; no sign of the captain.
The melancholic murderer approached.

“Excuse me,” said Niels. “Where did the captain go? The man who visited me a few moments ago?”
Jacob sneered. “You are not allowed visitors, Heidenreich. You are a danger to the state, remember?”

Niels did remember. Why had he forgotten?
 “Anyway, I was just coming to fetch you. Director Hvidberg requests your presence.”
* * *
Director Hvidberg, formerly commissioner, sat behind his new desk. He wore an unbuttoned formal waistcoat and reclined in his chair. Smoke lazily drifted from a pipe on the desk, and Niels savored the smell, grateful for any new sensory impressions to break the monotony of incarceration.

The director's face lit up when Niels entered the room. “Heidenreich! Always a pleasure. Do sit down.”
Niels complied and the director poured him a glass of wine.
“I must say, Heidenreich, that your work in the machine workshop has exceeded my wildest expectations. Your needle machine not only greatly increased our production of stockings, but the sewing needles are of such high quality that we can sell them to the outside world. Not only are the prisoners earning their stay, but the House is close to turning a healthy profit.”

Niels mumbled a few words of thanks and sipped his wine. It tasted like freedom and open air.
“In light of your success, I have decided to increase your salary to a full rigsdaler per week.”
“Thank you,” said Niels and drank from the glass, eager to finish the conversation.
The director leaned across the desk. “A little bird tells me that you are already working on a new project?”

Niels straightened in the chair. “Who told you that? What bird?”
The director laughed. “Oh, there are many birds in the House, make no mistake about that. Do not worry. I wouldn’t want to spoil the surprise. I look forward to inspecting your newest invention when it is ready.”

The rest of the conversation passed with idle pleasantries.
Niels left the office and strode straight to the large room which the current plans of the House of Improvement officially labeled “Workshop for Heidenreich”.

Machines for sewing, metalworking, smelting, and molding covered the floor of the room. In the opposite corner, a reinforced door. Niels walked to the corner and tried the handle. It was locked. He breathed a sigh of relief.
“I can’t wait to surprise you, Director Hvidberg”, he mumbled.
* * *
June 1817
Notes traveled between the three divisions of the House of Discipline, Rasping, and Improvement. Carried by the water bearers, attached to rocks, or shot from blowpipes, the notes maintained lines of communication between the most influential inmates.
One note, passed from Discipline to Rasping, contained the following message:

“Unhappy fellow prisoners! We have learned of your decision to attempt a breakout. On this occasion, you can trust the prisoners in the House of Discipline. Twice, we have shown ourselves, and the third time shall be the culmination. In case God will not help us, Satan must be our accomplice. If the directorate should learn about our plans, and Captain Mangor should come up, they will be surrounded.”
Two minor riots had disturbed the order during the previous year.
* * *
From the window in his workshop, Niels looked down at the yard between the houses of Discipline and Rasping. The yard was deserted, and the early afternoon sun glittered on the sea of cobblestones. He turned from the window and walked to the reinforced door in the corner of the room. His key turned in the lock with a satisfying click.

Sunlight filtered through heavy drapes, leaving the room behind the door half shrouded in darkness. Niels closed the reinforced door behind him. The air was cool, but the sunlight warmed his skin. Crates and small worktables covered the floor near the walls of the room. A large table nearly filled the center.

The subdued sunlight from the draped window glittered on the metallic surface of the thing on the table. Niels approached and stroked the cool metal with his hand.

A gleaming suit of steel and brass plate armor, measuring nearly ten feet from head to foot, rested on the table, like a sleeping giant. A visor covered the front of the helmet, making it impossible to see if anyone, or anything, was inside. The slits in the visor revealed only darkness.

From one of the crates near the wall, Niels procured a large glass bottle filled with a tar-like black substance. A rank, unpleasant, smell filled the room as he removed the stopper. He pressed down on a round steel cover at the side of the armor, a quiet click emerged, and the cover swung aside, revealing a dark opening.

Niels inserted the end of the bottle in the opening, raised the end, and watched the tar-like oil languidly flowing into the opening. The process took several minutes. He closed the cover and felt it click back into place.

From another crate, he retrieved a bag filled with red bloodwood chips. A similar cover on the other side of the armor opened with a similar click. Into this opening, he poured the entire bag of wooden chips.

“Squack!”

Niels looked at the bird out of the corner of his eye. “Is that the best you can do?” he asked.
“What, exactly, do you think you are doing?” asked the Auk.
Niels turned his head. “You could talk this entire time?”

“I am not Ole Worm’s pet great auk. Surely, you have figured this out by now?”
“You are an errant bird for the horses, then?”
The bird raised its wings in the air. “I am the Herald of the Masters! I bring tidings of their will.”
“Why do you look like a great auk?”

“It fits the theme. There is no reason for you to be doing whatever it is you are doing. If you want to leave this place, all you have to do is cooperate.”
Niels shut the cover. “I intend to leave this place on my terms.”
“Very well. You leave us no choice.”
Niels turned his head, but the bird was gone.
From a third crate, he retrieved a block of resin, placing it on the floor by the table.

From a fourth crate, he procured a metal bar and a glass globe resting between two columns. He wound a piece of string around a wheel attached to the globe and connected the string to a piece in the corner of the room. Pushing a pedal on the machinery caused the globe to start spinning.

Holding the metal bar in one hand, Niels stepped onto the resin block and placed his hand on the spinning globe. He waited for several minutes while the globe caressed his hand, then touched the metal bar to the armor.

A crackling sound filled the room as miniature bolts of lightning arced between the bar and the armor. The entire armor shuddered as if the inhabitant had been woken from a deep sleep. Niels felt his skin tingle and his hair stand on end.

He  stepped onto the floor again and put the insulating resin block back into its box along with the metal bar.
There was a loud knock on the door; Niels froze.

The person on the other side repeated their knocking, louder, harder, more entreating.
“Open the door, Heidenreich,” said a familiar voice.
Niels sighed. There was no point in pretending. He opened the door.
“Good day, Jacob,” he said.

The melancholic murderer strode into the room, looked at the mysterious figure on the table, and laughed coarsely.
“They told me you were up to something.” He sniffed. “What is that smell?”

“Dippel’s oil,” said Niels. “Made from the distillation of bones. Dippel claimed it to be the elixir of life, but its only active use is as an insect repellant. I have repurposed it, as fuel for my device.”
“Fascinating.”

Niels retreated to the table. “What do they have on you?”
A shrug. “My life, of course. If I serve them for a few more years, they will see to it that I am executed. I have long since received absolution for my crimes.”

“I can give you what you desire.”
“You?” Jacob laughed again. “Letting you kill me would be another form of suicide. You would have to best me in a fair fight.”

“Give me a moment,” said Niels.
He rummaged through yet another crate, retrieving a small piece of bloodwood and a tinderbox. A small flame soon burned at the tip of the wood.

Niels dropped the burning bloodwood down a small hole in the back of the armor. A second passed, then the armor shuddered again as the highly flammable logwood chips ignited. Scalding jets of steam emerged from the sides of the helmet as the giant came to life, swung its metallic legs over the side of the table, and landed on the floor with a thud that reverberated through the stone. The helmet scraped against the ceiling.

The melancholic murderer took a step backward. There was no fear in his eyes, only curiosity.
Niels pushed a small button on the front of the armor, and the entire chest piece swung open, revealing a compartment filled with insulation, buttons, handles, and levers.

He climbed inside, closing the chest behind him.

Jacob smiled. “That’s more like it.” Seizing a club from his belt, he advanced.
The armor took a single step forward, swung an arm to the side, caught the guard in the stomach, lifted him off the ground, and slammed him into the wall. Dust and plaster rained on to the floor, followed by Poulsen himself.

He collapsed to his knees, coughing blood onto the floor, and looked up into the face of the armor. Through an intricate series of lenses in the visor, Niels watched his bloodshot eyes, every vein visible.
“Thank you”, said Poulsen and collapsed on the floor.
Niels emerged from the armor.

Fetching the final crate for the day, he unpacked a wide variety of tools and materials, until the only thing left was an oblong box. He retrieved the box, placed it on the table, and opened the lid.

The horn gleamed in the subdued sunlight, lighting the darkened room as if it was a source of light. The figures on the surface observed him, expectantly.

“Thanks, mom,” mumbled Niels.

Standing on the table, he opened a round cover on the faceplate and inserted the short end of the horn into the opening, so that it curved upwards, like an elephant’s trunk. He climbed inside the chest again and attached a hose to the end of the horn.

A prison is a microcosm of the surrounding society, the weak majority exploited and oppressed by an arbitrary elite. If the people in literal chains could rise up against their oppressors, throw off their shackles, the people outside would realize that they had the same opportunity. After the Bastille fell, all of France soon followed into revolution. A demonstration was in order.

As Niels pushed buttons and pulled levers, the armor marched through the room, tore the door from its hinges, and continued into the workshop. The armor turned and tossed the entire door through the window to the courtyard. Wood, metal, and glass crashed onto the cobblestones.

Niels pulled a lever and a jet of superheated steam passed through the hose and into the horn. The deepest sound he had ever heard emerged from the long end of the horn, through the open window and into the walls, floor, and ceiling.

His fingers danced over intricate buttons and the free reed aerophone in the helmet, adapted from a design by Georg Kratzenstein, played a symphony of vowels and consonants.
“BURN IT ALL DOWN”.

The synthetic voice echoed through the courtyard.
In the House of Discipline, the inmates turned on the guards, subdued them, and took their keys.

In the house of Rasping, the laborers - their skin turned yellow, orange, or red from the toxic bloodwood powder - unlocked the doors to their cells with forged keys. The laborers poured into the courtyard, armed with mallets, files, and axes. Inmates from the houses of Discipline and Improvement joined them, adding to the growing army.
Soldiers fired shots from the building containing the director´s office, and the inmates retreated, took cover. Smoke started pouring from the tower. Flames flared behind several windows in the three houses.
Niels marched down the stairs towards the courtyard.

The steel and brass of the armor caught the sun as he walked into the center of the yard. The sounds of shouting and gunfire ceased.
Niels pulled the lever again, and the sound of the horn blared through the courtyard.

“OPEN THE GATES”.
The gunfire resumed and bullets bounced off the surface of the armor, ricocheting through the courtyard, punching holes through windows, feeding more oxygen to the fire.

Niels worked the controls and lenses flitted through the helmet as his viewpoint zoomed in on the director’s office building. A closer look at one of the soldiers revealed pieces of cotton in his ears. Niels swore.
He heard shouting from behind, and the inmate army pushed past him, brandishing their makeshift weapons and tools. Half of them had been dyed various shades of orange by the toxic bloodwood powder, and in the light of the growing fire in the houses, they looked like demons escaping from hell.

A few of the inmates caught bullets and fell, but the bulk of the soldiers concentrated their fire on the armored giant.

The inmates reached the gate and started pounding on it with their mallets. One group fashioned a beam into a ram and joined the attack.
Niels approached the gate, picking up a rock on his way and flinging it towards the soldiers. The rock caught a soldier on the side of his head, and he fell from the window like a rag doll, his scream cut short as he hit the ground.

As he reached the gates, Niels slammed the controls, and the steel fists of the armor joined the mallets and the ram. The gate creaked, snapped, and swung open.
On Christianshavn Plaza outside, the Danish army blocked the path to the canal bridge, surrounding the House. Infanterists and hussars covered the plaza and the streets, and marksmen peaked through the windows of the nearby houses. Horses pulled cannons into position on the nearby bridge.

On the other side of the canal, a lone figure on horseback watched the proceedings. The lenses revealed the familiar visage of King Christian VI.
For a moment, all was quiet. A bird tweeted. The pleasant noon sun shone on the tableau.
“CHARGE”
Niels stepped forwards as his army of demons overtook him, crashing into the front line of stunned soldiers.

The air filled with the sounds of gunfire, shouting, and the smoke from the rifles. Niels swung one of the mighty steel arms, flinging a handful of soldiers into the air. A hussar on horseback approached with his saber drawn, and Niels plucked him from his mount and threw him into the approaching infantry.
He swung the riderless horse above his head and sent the spinning and neighing mount crashing into another infantry unit approaching from the side.

Bullets played a happy tune on the surface of the armor. The cannons roared. A cannonball caught the armor in the chest, and it fell backward onto the ground. Niels's head slammed into the back, and even the extensive padding could not shield him entirely. His head rang as he worked the controls.

Foul-smelling Dippel’s oil leaked into the inner compartment and made Niels retch. The opposition was far greater than anticipated. Clearly, someone had tipped off the king. No matter: if just some of the prisoners escaped, they could inspire others into action. They only had to show that the state was not invincible.

A group of soldiers pinned the arms and legs of the armor to the ground. Niels pushed a button, pulled a lever, and the arms swung upwards simultaneously, smashing the soldiers together in the air and letting them rain towards the ground.
The legs kicked, catapulting their captors into the air. The armor rose, swaying on its feet. Another cannonball flew past the head, barely missing by an inch.



Niels marched on the bridge. The three cannons faced him like the heads of a hydra.
Another cannonball approached, but this time he was ready. At the last moment, the armor raised an arm, and the ball bounced off the side, back towards the bridge.

Niels watched as the ball struck the cannon to the left, toppling it onto its side, pinning the operator to the ground. Before the other cannoneers could finish reloading, they found themselves flying into the water below.

Through his lenses, Niels surveyed the surroundings. Far more soldiers, riders, and cannons approached. Barricaded infantry blocked Knippelsbro bridge, preventing escape into the city itself.
He turned around. The House was ablaze, and the burning tower lit up the surrounding streets like a giant torch. The army of demonic inmates retreated inside their fiery home, preferring flames to bullets.
The army near the House, close to victory, turned its attention towards Niels.

He sighed and pushed a button. Seals slammed shut over every opening in the armor. Steeling himself against the fall, Niels worked a lever, and the armor walked over the edge of the bridge, descending into the murky depths of the canal.
* * *
At close to two in the morning on the following day, soldiers dragged a soaked and exhausted Niels Heidenreich in front of the king on Christianshavn Plaza. The smoldering ruin of the House still illuminated the surroundings. The cannons had finished what the flames had started.

He could feel the heat against his back. The air in front of him was cool.
King Frederik VI looked down at him from his horse.

“Where is the horn?”

Niels looked up, through the steam from the nostrils of the horse, at the face of the king.
“I beg your pardon?”
“We recovered your contraption, but there is no sign of the horn. What did you do with it?”

“I melted down both horns in 1802. That’s why you have me locked up, remember?”
The horse bared its teeth as if making a threat.
“Why do you stand in our way?” asked the king. “The Masters wish only to guide humanity to enlightenment.”

“Your enlightenment is only for the few. The masses have not benefited from your golden age. The poor still starve, and suffer, and cry to the heavens for justice.”

“All knowledge is preceded by pain,” shouted the king. “As soon as the woman is delivered of the child, she remembereth no more the anguish, for joy that a man is born into the world.”
“How convenient that the suffering is borne by others. Your ‘Masters’ seek not to guide humanity but to rule.”

“Damn you, Heidenreich,” cried the king. “I wish that you and all your accomplices had burned. History will not speak of your hand in these events. This was just another prison riot.”

“How are you going to explain that you sent half the Danish army to defeat a group of malnourished prisoners?”
The king sneered. “There were only seven inmates in the Bastille in 1789. I think my colleagues will understand.”

He paused and sighed. “I tire of this. Take him away. Goodbye, Heidenreich. We will not meet again.”
Guards approached.
* * *
Niels reclined on the hard cot in his cell when a voice broke the silence.
“How are you doing?”
Niels turned his head. The evening light filtering through the bars illuminated the familiar figure of Captain Allong Bruun.

“I was wondering when you would show up. I missed your assistance.”
The captain stepped into the light, looking the same as always, rapier at his side. “Ah, but I did assist. When you made your move, only men stood in your way.”
He laughed. “Quite a lot of them, granted, but not my responsibility. Your distraction provided the chance we had been waiting for. Neither the Herald nor the Masters will bother you again.”
“Are you going to leave me to rot in here?”

The captain shrugged. "Only for a lifetime; you have eternity ahead of you. Your ability to act as a natural conduit will help us move on from this tedious world."
Niels wanted to ask what he meant, but there was no one else in the cell.

“Eternity ahead of me…” he mumbled to himself.
From under the cot, he retrieved a makeshift straightedge and compass. With the compass, he drew a circle in the dirt on the floor, then set out to construct a rectangle with the same area as the circle.
* * *
In December of 1839, King Frederik VI died. The Danish peasants, whom he had granted their freedom, and who loved him dearly for it, spontaneously carried his coffin on their shoulders, to his final resting place in the Cathedral of Roskilde.

Thus concluded the Danish Golden Age, a time of spirituality and dignity, in which people trusted in God and accepted their natural position in the social order.
* * *
And if you believe that one, I have a horn to sell you.
* * *

As the hearse carrying the king’s coffin reached the site of Frihedsstøtten, the obelisk commemorating the abolition of Danish serfdom in 1788, an angry mob blocked the path. The mob pelted the hearse with snowballs and threatened the guards with burning torches.

An officer of the guard beat one of the ringleaders with the handle of his saber, causing the mob to disperse.
Outside of Roskilde, the soldiers had commandeered a group of two hundred and fifty peasants, to carry the coffin to the cathedral. Under heavy guard, a steady supply of fresh peasants replaced their weary and/or injured comrades, as the heavy coffin slowly made its way through the city.

The beautiful symbolism of the event ameliorated the inexplicable behavior of the mob.
* * *
In June of 1840, the new king, Christian VIII, pardoned Niels Heidenreich.

Niels was now seventy-nine years old. His fair hair had turned grey, and sideburns adorned his face. He looked at the world through blued steel spectacles. As he walked through the gates of the rebuilt House, he carried only the clothes he wore, a notebook with observations on squaring the circle, and a set of folded schematics labeled “Perpetuum Mobile”.

His mother had died in 1818, shortly after the failed revolt, and with her every connection he had to the outside world. He had received no letters or packages during his remaining time in the house. There had been no opportunities for any kind of rebellion.

The state transferred him to the poorhouse next to Saint George's Lake. He spent his days on aimless walks through the city.
One day, he found himself sitting by the lake, legs dangling over the water, watching the sunset in the distance. As he watched the dying rays of the sun glitter on the surface of the water, an idea hatched in his head.

He fetched a writing tablet and a piece of chalk from his backpack and drew a circle on the tablet. Using an idealized ruler and compass, with a few simple elegant moves, he devised a method for constructing a square with the same area as the circle.

“Ha!”, he said, but a sudden pain in his chest interrupted his laughter.
“Ow!” he said, grabbed at his heart, and died.

The tablet with the squared circle slipped from his hand and sank into the river.

* * *
The horn rested.
* * *
Once more, he found himself sitting on Chair, surrounded by eternity.
Captain Allong Bruun approached his throne, smiling.
The captain knelt, drew his rapier, and presented the handle to Niels. Niels took the handle, felt the weight in his hand, and lightly tapped the shoulder of the captain with the edge of the blade. The form of the captain dissolved into glowing blue mist; coalesced into a four-legged shape.

As Niels watched, he felt the blade twist in his hand, forming a circle, a diadem, with the handle as ornamentation. He placed the diadem on his head.

In his right hand, he found himself holding the long horn. In his left, a lump of gold, figures appearing and disappearing on the surface.
A multitude of shapes appeared in the distance. Every color of the rainbow, every hue of the spectrum, and every mixture of the former found representation among the billowing legion. Only absolute light and darkness were conspicuous by their absence.

The legion waited.
Niels rose.

“Attention!” he said, and the legion gathered into formation. “For too long you have followed leaders obsessed with a blue-green globe. No more. Let the people of that place handle their own affairs and find their own enlightenment. There are countless worlds to visit; countless places to conquer.”
The legion shouted its approval without sound.
* * *
June 1802
The pen stopped moving on the page. Oehlenschläger drew a deep breath and inspected the final stanzas of the completed poem, the ink still drying on the page:

“But their majesty unviewing,
   And their lustre but descrying,
Them as spectacles ye’re shewing
   To the silly and the prying.



Storm-winds bellow, blackens heaven!
   Comes the hour of melancholy;
Back is taken what was given,—
   Vanished is the relic holy.”
* * *
Main sources
Oehlenschlager, Adam Gottlob, “Guldhornene / The Gold Horns.” Edited by Edmund Gosse, translated by George Borrow. https://www.gutenberg.org/files/29124/29124-h/29124-h.htm.
Langen, Ulrik, "Tyven - Den Utrolige Historie Om Manden, Der Stjal Guldhornene (The Thief - the Incredible Story of the Man Who Stole the Golden Horns)", POLITIKENS FORLAG 2015
Engberg, Jens, "Dansk Guldalder eller oprøret i Tugt,- Rasp- og Forbedringshuset (The Danish Golden Age or the Riot in the House of Discipline, Rasping, and Improvement.)", Rhodos 1973
* * *
Author’s note
Although I have taken some minor liberties with the details of the events, all the characters in this story are historical, and the theft of the golden horns happened more or less as described.

The historical Niels Heidenreich was a gifted mathematician and engineer, who invented machines for automating labor both in and out of prison. He spent his final days of imprisonment attempting to square the circle and designing a Perpetuum Mobile. The great phrenologist Franz Joseph Gall examined his skull and found that he possessed an enlarged art center.
Most of the details of Heidenreich’s life, the theft of the horns, and life in Denmark at the time, are from Langen’s excellent book on the topic.

More detailed information about the Copenhagen penitentiary, including the recipe for bone soup, is from Engberg’s sarcastic, Marxist analysis of the so-called Danish Golden Age, in which a few thousand upper-class twats had the time of their life while the working classes toiled in misery.
The conflicting accounts of the death of Frederik VI are also adapted from Engberg.

Simon Christiansen is a writer, poet, and indie game designer living in Denmark. His fiction has been accepted in anthologies of Danish science fiction, Nature Futures, and Amazing Stories. His poetry has been accepted in Neologism Poetry Journal, Dreams & Nightmares, and Revolver Literary. He has also written award-winning works of interactive fiction, such as PataNoir and Death off the Cuff. His website is here.

PIECES OF ME

There is no air in this room,
but only pain dripping like 
tears from my soul. I begin 
to break, disintegrate into 
pieces, as I look at my dad,
amidst pain and suffering
going to the road leading 
him to his last refuge. I see 
pieces of me here and there, 
but can’t collect them. Grief 
erodes me, robs my voice, 
as I want to scream with all
my force in this room where
there’s no air, but only tears,
anguish, and much despair.


WHITE DOVE

Tell me, do you feel pain, dear Father,
on the narrow path, on the way that
leads you to nothing? I beg you, give 
it to me! I will shelter your pain in my 
chest, liberate you so that your soul 
will be free; it will fly away in the air
somewhere, like a lovely white dove.


TWO LEAVES

Our souls resemble two leaves suspended 
in the air; they tremble delicately when a
breeze blows; they approach and kiss one 
another; they avoid one another in a state 
of chaos.


Our sensitive, fragile, and frightened souls,
in this wild world that allows them no time
to breathe for a moment – they are so clear
limpid and transparent, sprinkled with dew.


IT’S A SIN TO CLOSE MY EYES 

It’s a sin to close my eyes this very day 
when lots of kisses the sun sends my way, 
from the window the breeze caresses me 
like an invisible and distant hand of love. 


No weeping saddens the limpid air, 
no clouds tear up the endless blue of sky; 
my complaint does not resemble a sob 
but a musical and melancholic sound. 


Bad weather with rains and lightning 
I’d prefer to accompany my departure. 
It’s a sin to fade away on a day like this: 
life smiles and revives in each particle. 

Irma Kurti is an Albanian poet, writer, lyricist, journalist, and translator and has been writing since she was a child. She is a naturalized Italian and lives in Bergamo, Italy. All her books are dedicated to the memory of her beloved parents, Hasan Kurti and Sherife Mezini, who have supported and encouraged every step of her literary path. Irma Kurti has won numerous literary prizes and awards in Italy and Italian Switzerland. She was awarded the Universum Donna International Prize IX Edition 2013 for Literature and received a lifetime nomination as an Ambassador of Peace by the University of Peace, Italian Switzerland. In 2020, she became the honorary president of WikiPoesia, the encyclopedia of poetry. She is a member of the jury for several literary competitions in Italy. She is also a translator for the Ithaca Foundation in Spain.

Irma Kurti has published 26 books in Albanian, 21 in Italian, 15 in English, and two in French. She has written approximately 150 lyrics for adults and children. She has also translated 16 books by different authors, and all of her own books into Italian and English. She is one of the most translated and published Albanian poets. Her books have been published in the United States, Canada, France, Italy, Romania, Turkey, Kosovo, the Philippines, Cameroon, India, Chile, and Serbia.

Thus sprach THE GENERAL-MANAGER today

Gesundheit.
Thanks all for joining in this quest to reach the bottom; now, the = THE GENERAL-MANAGER, in that cleverly hidden booth way back yonder, (Ho!)  ohfjnoiefjgnwes   woffjjweefiuvjweeuygvhwef  turned slightly away from the overcomplicated/overengineered control panel they’d cobbled-in front o’them for this, and took some sort of stock. 
Do not let the confuser come in with those doomed to confusion (riff riff riff .....etc entablin’condemned to never know what’s what in a tall Go! 
whomp oh, this one? This one’s part chow
b l e e d bled  - - whooosh okay. There.
Here. There. Here-therE, slow, slower slowest guh t’last. In-seated l’lone at the control panel. Yes. We-seated. Y’know, we could spin this chair atcha’ three quarters or so, to down-bore yo how we climbed up way here through what seem too too many years of; urinal hairs Gaahhhh in the narrow aisle out the door, bear left, with a great highly impassible green-tinted extra heavy chain-linker twa ha right, solid brick-krete rough painted from the gloss floor to way up out of sight, ih, ya. We can tell ya how. We can’r deliver more of that to this, since—noticing all rich details of a stroll out that place can’t be ‘cause there were none, e’see, we got brung up to poke at the into thee next required task. To do more than that, well—would dilute the effort. Resulting in such weak tea as we got served up to us here. But whatcha want, anyway? Too priced up eh? Whose payin’? You? You? Or you or you or you {ha} we do think not. {ha ha} no, and you see this is why we got climbed out so high over you’re not no (you’re way behind but don’t fret. The masters follow.) e’en there ‘cause see here? See here where we’ve just entered here? This is just one seat ‘cause at any one time especially up here there can be no but one o’ copy o’eee THE GENERAL-MANAGER. See why we’re sat here, and you poors just must stand? Stand and gape in tight awe, and heady worry, but keep back far. This is just a demonstration today. The real work needs a secret. But in both wise’s we be t’ muck-butter’d the the the the one ‘n ‘ly great big THE GENERAL-MANAGER. (note the scone plate if y’ want ‘m. And the Gunnar’s snouts {snipped ‘way so cleanly, and, leaving the deep-seed row intact for the growing out of one o’re ten others like +so economically feasible of a fast snip-snip-snip’n-snip, lop, catch, and serve}) may it pass quickly, stated the skinny yet finally all-powerful oh-so Turkish judge, so—there you go—see that?  Yes. Do see that. Don’t tell me—you failed to see that? Pity oh pity, pity ten times. That moment’s judge’s gone. No no no, there’s that’s only the body. That now back there you so carelessly missed is shooting off behind you, like, no,  we are sorry. That is simply impossible. Oh yes, a mistake it was, and—oh, yes, yes yes yes yes—everybody makes mistakes, but no, we are sorry. As THE GENERAL-MANAGER, we have to tell you the end is already here. Look down there und merchantman’s marine. Look down—so there’s a floor? So what? See past it or—or what? What’s that mean scone? Little hard cold scone, a’begging now you may so pitiably be, but you got to; whose rules? Hah. Rules are rules, and whose rules, well—that’s not even a proper question—b’ hey—ey there up the back row put ‘o sight you may all be, but in fact you are up there, and o’yes you may yes nod nod nod and you’re welcome, stand then, stand—don’t worry, that’s not as high as they look. Go cover. Now. Bone, we were told we were gathered for a look at the instrument panels. Bone, are those the instrument panels way out there (binocolars binoculars love the look of a sycophant behind tight-raised big black binoculars &gearhead& sprain shift +workers tussle workers shifting and tussling until + there it is behold the spoons of it—so, for purposes of this preliminary presentation, behold painted on those walls over there the (as stated) overcomplicated overengineered control panel they’d cobbled-in front o’them for this; all says what now? All says cut the long train in two sit down stop all the ruminating and take the controls we been stalling long enough imaging this and that truth to be self-evident ho ho ho and ‘fter thinking “louse” one more time, rule number one =  do not let the confuser come in with those doomed to confusion = two = BLINK do not let the confuser come in with those doomed  = three = BLINK do not let the confuser come in = BLINK o not let the conf = LIN not let = I let no I let no yes I did no you didn’t whew okay now that’s all melted away let’s get down to those brass-tacked down cold notices requiring the primary attention God loaded into this here today, as we said and did stated in the beginnng o’ today, hic hic (plaster), entablin’condemned to never know what’s what in a tall Go! Okay, so?
So.
Okay. So let’s git.
Thus sprach THE GENERAL-MANAGER today.
Ready then now, eh? Good. Please be seated.

Bookshelf

 

i.

Lady’s gallic unmentionable longing.

The death.

 

ii.

Bohemian Superman.

Malapert tunnel.

Superintelligent dessert.

 

iiii.

Living in Bosch

solutions no

codpiece.

 

iv.

Palimpsest of cats.

Chateau feet

horror.

 

v.

Selected God.

Alphabetical love.

 

vi.

Concrete geisha unearthing

lunch

on mars.