I could begin this tale as many do, with the weather:

            It is snowing. Or it had just snowed. Either way, it is dead of winter and cold, and the city of Vienna lies beneath a skin of frost that contours the details of its noble architecture, layers the streets, and speckles its citizens in crystalline white.

Or, I could begin by setting the scene, the place and time of our story:

            The place is Salzburg, or will be once we leave Vienna, and the time is the latter half of the 18th century. The specifics of which year or years is not important as this is a fantasy and not an historical treatise—none of it really happened. Or rather, it has never been chronicled as happening.

            No, do not look for history in this narrative. Just know that it is a time of transition. Of philosophical and religious transformation. An awakening. A time of change. And with change, we all know, comes resistance. Thus, it is a time of looming revolution.

Perhaps that is too heavy-handed, too Dickens-esque.

Instead, I could begin by introducing the central character, and build the world in which he lives around him:

            He is an old man of forty-five. As life expectancy is not then what it is now, he could be considered a senior citizen. Little about him, however, displays his advanced years. His stride is long and vigorous as he proceeds down a snow-dusted Vienna street; his body upright against the cold, his eyes alive with childlike anticipation. He rubs together his slender hands with agile fingers designed for the intricate work of, say, surgery, or in his case, clockmaking. He rubs them because he has absent-mindedly forgotten his gloves. Not absent-minded due to an aging brain, rather from a mind in the constant process of creating and nurturing ideas, like an author plotting his next tome or a scientist on the verge of a great discovery.

Now I wonder if this isn’t too dull and common a beginning. A man walking down a street?

Perhaps I should entice you with a dialogue, a foreshadowing or prologue of what is to come, and then relate the rest of this tale in flashback:

            “I am so sorry, my dear.” His lithe, weakened fingers caress her flawless complexion. She presses against the touch she had once longed for, the heat of her breath upon his palm. “Sorry for what?” she asks.

“For seeing you as nothing but an experiment. I’ve been such a fool!”

A tear rolls down her face to his hand. “Yes. Yes, you have.”

“Take care of Joop.”

“Yes. He’ll be safe.”

 No, no. I so loathe beginnings like that. I abhor prologues!

I choose to start, instead, by putting our attention upon a single object. Something innocuous, at first glance, but through closer examination a thing of intricate complexity, and of great importance to our story. An object of innocence and wonder; a reflection of the transitive, enlightened era to which I earlier referred.

I will begin with…a toy.

It is no ordinary toy, of course, for this is no ordinary tale.

The toy is a figurine of a lad holding a lute. On the outside he is made of wood, painted with a youthful complexion, and dressed in attire common to the middle ages. Atop his head rests a cap with a feather.

On the inside, he is a complicated mechanism of gears and rods that connect him, through his legs, to even greater mechanics within the display box upon which he sits. When activated, it is this machinery that gives him life. His head tilts back, his mouth opens and his eyes close, together giving the appearance of laughter. Then he stands. Upright, he is about two feet in height. He gives another “laugh” and begins to strum the lute. Its tone is bright and resonant, just as you might expect from such an instrument.

But it does not end there.

As he strums with his right hand, his left moves up and down the frets, his fingers pressing precisely upon the strings to emit a soothing melody of chords, a song that may have been popular during Charlemagne’s reign. His body turns from side-to-side while playing, and his head tilts as though fascinated by those watching him as much as they are of him. When the music stops, the mechanical boy shares one more laugh, winks, and sits back down.

He is an object so remarkable for its time that people are braving the Vienna winter to see him. A few people, anyway; people with curious intellects. People like our gloveless horologist who hurries his way down a quaint avenue to the home of Roth and Helma Altbrusser.

The Altbrussers are known for their eccentricities, the couple themselves being as eccentric as they come. With his red hair and boisterous voice, Herr Altbrusser’s presence fills even the grandest of rooms, while his wife, Helma, towers over him, and most everyone else, by more than a foot. Add to that the Cathedral-like wigs she dons and the pair make an impression one cannot easily forget. A startling impression, in fact, if you are not expecting it.

It is not uncommon for a family to open their home to an afternoon of chamber music. On occasion, however, the Altbrussers forego the music, and welcome guests–with great enthusiasm, I might add–to view the array of novelties they have amassed over the years.

Being upper class, they live on the first floor. (Poorer classes live above. God forbid a person of high social standing partake in the common chore of walking upstairs!) Their apartment is comprised of numerous small rooms–including a vestibule, a study, and a kitchen–and two larger rooms. At the center of the abode is an interior courtyard, a space where the Altbrussers dine and entertain. It is to this area, among a gathering of other guests, that Josef Kronecker, a modest clockmaker from Salzburg, is led upon his arrival.  

Though they have never met, Herr Kronecker and Herr Altbrusser are fondly familiar with one another. Josef knows all too well of the Altbrusser’s collection of oddities. And anyone who appreciates the finest of time-pieces as much as Roth Altbrusser does is aware of Herr Kronecker’s work. Josef notices one of his creations, in fact–an elegant mantle clock of porcelain and gilded bronze–as he passes through the vestibule. He humbly smiles to see it resting behind the glass of a Venetian painted cabinet.

He also spies a few of the oddities the eccentric couple is known for: ornamental figurines of hermits and faeries; a three-dimensional diorama paper theatre displaying a scene from Molière’s Tartuffe; a 17th century poisons cabinet beside a shelf of anatomical models; and a most interesting 16th century male chastity belt. However, while all fascinating, none are what Josef has traveled far to see.

“Josef Kronecker!” Herr Altbrusser booms at the sight of the clockmaker. Josef is taken aback by the greeting since, as I mentioned, the two have never met.