Le Grand Bal de Klüsterbonk

"Wine is for friends and family!"

Séraphine's glare knocked the glass of merlot from my hand, sending the treasure vaulting through the air. For a moment, time seemed to slow. Even the wine's flight seemed otherworldly, like a divinely spun silk rippling on the wind. It commanded the air like an enchantment.

Séraphine was my guardian angel, and while I did thank heaven for her, she cared nothing for anyone's sense of propriety but her own.

Ladies in clouds of pastel chiffon gasped and darted, trapped by the calculated awkwardness of the Hall of Suitors' elevated tables and chairs.

When the wine finally landed--such a deep, beautiful color, a hallmark of our elevated côte--the spread was surprisingly minor (or not surprising, Séraphine did have an angel's precision, after all).

A synchronized hive of servants had descended even as the wine was in midair, shielding the ladies and their finery. Then the quick magic of salt soothing wine from cloth, and all was restored.

--Or, most all.

"Sharing a cup of wine is a covenant of joy! And if you saw what sort that suitor had in mind..." Séraphine was clucking knowingly. Never mind that the seat before me was empty. I had to accept the idiosyncrasies of her foresight. Time always proved her right.

And in truth, I had known better. Father had believed in sending 'messages in a bottle'--an involved art that went over the heads of many--and "merlot for love, cabernet for grandeur" had been his first rule. Our merlots had luscious, sensuous flavors, suited to occasions of warmth, levity, and intimacy: for family, dear friends, or romance. I had chosen the wine to keep me company, to surround myself with kind feelings of my home. What was called for, however, were statements of power and diplomacy. This was no time for comfort.

This was Date One of the Grand Ball du Conte de Klüsterbonk. Here there were darting feet ready to trip the unwary walker, and fingernails were daggers. Ladies were frocked and flounced, glitzed and glazed, with hair sculpted into marvels: birds nested, butterflies took flight, castles perched on mountaintops, and of course, flowers bloomed out of everywhere.

But there were few gentle flowers here. It was a brokering of power the likes of which I had not wanted to imagine. And more, I had never expected to need to be here brokering myself and my homeland. But Séraphine had been adamant: "The gods help those who help themselves. And so you must go."

Thinking of this, my thoughts returned to the moment at hand: special cakes and cordials needed to be sent to the ladies, tokens of reward and gratitude to the valiant servants. A place in court might be lost by any one of us for this, but Séraphine had a magical way of smoothing over circumstances that ordinarily would have been disastrous.

And the pattern held true: there was still plenty of tension in the air--such a flustering, desperate event this seemed! Yet the orchestra's music capered playfully as a summer wind, courting attentions back to the marvels of the Count's showplace. Immense windows looked out on a stunning mountain vista, sun gleamed off the snowy peaks as though it could cut glass. The light splintered through crystal chandeliers and goblets, and erupted from the jewels encrusting the Count's throne.

A squire sounded a delicate "ting-ting-ting" and the room again was abuzz with movement. Gentlemen were dismounting the awkward, high chairs (an involved prank on the part of Count Klüsterbonk, no doubt), proceeding to the next isle of ladydom. No one had much dignity hoisting themselves into those chairs; they would have been improved by a ladder, at the very least, and swayed precariously as suitors launched themselves upwards. Nevertheless, the room was awash in giggles and squeals. Dutiful waiters followed behind, each gentleman's drink on a silver tray. Many suitors fumbled their way through greetings, due to the strange seating. Yet notably, there were others who seemed trained and practiced in the altered protocols: the Count's allies, to be sure. They all exhibited a glamour of confidence that was more than a little suspicious: white-toothed amiability on the surface, yet a predatory rumble lurked beneath.

Finally, all had seated, and once again, the chair opposite was empty. Another strike from Count Klüsterbonk. It had not been my intention to be here. Such a corralling of destinies was not in line with the values of my home. In the Valley of the Vine, matches were planned over generations, with the same intricate care given to our wines. Yet circumstances--most unusual circumstances--had come to pass all over, from one kingdom to the next: accidents and untimely deaths. Meanwhile, the Conte de Klüsterbonk had been forming new alliances, and forcing the dissolution of others. He had begun throwing matchmaking fêtes more lavish with every year, drawing more and more young princes and princesses into a world of never-ending celebration, at his Palèce City.

It was a lot of pomp and circumstance for a world of people who were, in truth, simple farmers. Each of our little kingdoms had traded peacefully for centuries--lands of grain, fruit, flowers, and wine. We had all prospered in that simple world.

The balance was changing, being changed. On my journey, I had passed many a crumbling and squalid hamlet--strong signs that the opulence around us was paid for with the hunger of the multitudes. It only added to the clouds already looming in my mind.

Smoke had been rising from among the vines as I departed my family's chateau. My father buried two days before, a year's growth pruned and burning in barrows, and one hundred years' vines uprooted, diced, and buried where they'd stood.

The vines were pruned every year, yet it never failed to invoke a gloomy feeling: beneath the gray sky of early winter, plumes of smoke ascending from the pyres. The maître de culture and his assistants moving with the slow solemnity of ferrymen, conveying the arms of our dear ones to another world.

Every year, too, we sacrificed some of the more ancient vines for the sake of the future. The grapes were a triumph, yet their harvests were sparse. Nonetheless, I knew each one of them, had drunk the wine of their grapes. They were guardians of the wisdom of the earth; how could we treat them with such cruelty? Séraphine always reminded me that "even the god of the vine himself was torn apart each year, and rose anew each spring."

Yet my father would not return. That was a winter that would not end, and so many now looked to me to care for them as he had. That, in a world of mounting cruelty, with fewer and fewer friends.

"It is up to you to do the rising, my dear." Séraphine's words flowed seamlessly from my thoughts.

"One must suffer, for roots profondes--to find the wellspring of greatness. The ancient vines fought hard for water. It drove them deep into the earth, where they drank of the earth's riches, and arose with flavors of rare splendor. So it shall be for you."

"Ting-ting-ting!" The third cycle of meetings interrupted her counsel, and the din of movement and greetings commenced. My table remained empty. I saw familiar faces, from kingdoms of sunflowers, orchards, and lavender fields that stretched forever. These young men had been friends to us, before. Yet their faces seized in a panic when they saw me, and they turned aside.

The orchestra commenced a processional piece, and servants and courtiers alike keyed into a state of abject attention. All eyes were fixed upon the grand entrance. For there stood the Conte de Klüsterbonk. His velvet coat and trousers were elaborately embroidered with golden threads, his shoes of the finest, supplest patent leather I had ever seen. Even his stockings were accented. He stood with a face verging on a sneer, for a long time. And then, he lifted his arm, and nodded to the orchestra.

A rousing dance piece commenced, with the Count kicking up his feet and leaping nimbly. His claque of allies were clapping and shouting, joining the dance as he passed. Quickly the room became exultant, singing and cheering. Pairs of retainers were joining hands, vaulting the count and the others of his group high into the air, where they performed somersaults, twists, and other feats before landing gently. Another pass of the room, and they began vaulting each other back into their high seats, one by one. The collective "ooohs!" and squeals of excitement filled the room each time someone jumped, rising and falling almost like a swing.

And then, only the Conte remained. Two of his footmen were flanking him before me. The entire court was filled with flowery sounds of delight. The retainers began to lead the cheers, in preparation for the Count's jump. Klüsterbonk stepped onto the footmen's joined hands, his palms pressed on their foreheads, his middle fingers grasped under their noses. The room was frantic with anticipation.

High, high, high into the air he rose, somersaulting, twisting, posing.

Séraphine had been silent, elsewhere. Now, she appeared, alighting beside the Conte, invisible to all but me. Her face was beside his, studying its rapture. She blew only lightly, yet a look of panic overcame him instantly. The smallest breath of the angel had thrown his balance irretrievably off. He flailed gracelessly, striking the chair before me with his foot. It clattered to the floor, followed by Count Klüsterbonk, himself, falling hard and ugly. A sound issued from him, at once low and gutteral, and high-pitched as the squeal of a cat.

The room looked on, dumbstruck. He was the host, yet the rules of this world were clear and unforgiving, forged so by the Conte himself. Jeers and mockery began, as the Count struggled to his feet with the help of his footmen. His face was strained with pain, made maniacal by his efforts to control it. His eyes bulged, his teeth were clenched into a wide smile. Though he looked ready to fight his way through the humiliation, his footmen, dutifully seeking to alleviate his suffering, escorted him out of the hall.

It was as though a spell had been broken. Color rushed to people's faces, and an air of lightness and relief was felt all around. Séraphine took a breath, more for the joy of it than necessity. It was a sound of satisfaction. "The meeting is complete," she said. "Come, we must be going."

I felt somehow like a fugitive. Shouldn't I leave parting gifts? Thank yous? Condolences?

But this moment had proven, like none ever before, that Séraphine's judgement was irrefutable.

I hopped from that absurd chair, and exited, face as grim as a gaoler on the outside, spirit overcome with relief and elation on the inside. War averted, the people, free! Our carriage rumbled forth like a herald of victory. I stuck my head from the window to feel the winter air upon my face. It felt gentle and invigorating, despite its coldness. My father was still gone, but much had been achieved to protect his kingdom and our people.

A short distance into our journey, a rider approached, travelling toward the Palèce de Klüsterbonk.

"Wave to him," Séraphine commanded, with an urgency nothing at Count Klüsterbonk's had merited.

I did as told, and the rider came to a halt beside us. The horses of our carriage stopped, seemingly of their own accord.

The rider was the heir to a neighboring kingdom, a place of the finest pastures, and the rarest, most remarkable cheeses.

"Invite him to share a glass of the merlot with you."

Séraphine was my guardian angel, and for that I was most grateful.