Clockwork Angels: The Novel (35 page)

“Of course.” Finally, she said, “I’m sorry I laughed and broke your heart. I didn’t understand.”

“It wasn’t just you—I’ve been tricked every step of the way,” Owen said, though he heard her voice echo in his head.
I’d never let myself be trapped like that!
“From the stories in my mother’s books that made me want to run away and see Crown City to the spiteful people in Poseidon; the empty Seven Cities of Gold, and the Wreckers who killed so many good sailors without a measure of mercy. But I kept searching and hoping that at least one of those dreams would be what I expected.”

He shook his head. “Worst of all, the Anarchist tricked me away from home with the intent of making me his pawn. And the Watchmaker with his schemes—they tried to make me part of a plan that I have no interest in.”

Francesca reached out to stroke his arm. “Thank your stars you’re not like them.”

His nostrils flared as he thought of how much pain they had caused him. “I wish I could convince them to stop scheming.”

She pushed a strand of hair out of his eyes. It was much longer now, than the last time she had seen him. “You can’t change the Watchmaker. You can’t change the Anarchist. You’ll never agree with their reasons, so why bother asking them why? Maybe they’ll change someday, maybe they won’t. You can’t do anything for them—just keep on going and wish them well.”

“But what should I do about it?” Owen said.

She leaned back against the trunk of the tree. “Remember those pig farmers in Ashkelon, when you tried to defend me? You can’t fix everyone. Turn your back and walk away. If you hold a grudge too long, it’ll eat you up like a poison inside.”

“So I should just forget about what happened?”

Her eyes sparkled. “You don’t have to forget everything, but you’re not responsible for it all either.”

He thought about that as they contemplated the clouds.

He decided not to go back to Crown City or Barrel Arbor or Poseidon or Cíbola . . . or any place about which he had preconceptions or misconceptions. He would travel with the carnival, but he would make his own life. He hoped Francesca would have him, but he would accept his life either way.

Wish me well.

He went to the bright red booth of the gypsy fortune teller and wound the key on the side, watched as the clockwork mechanism animated her. He had missed their conversations. The faint blue glow of quintessence filled her biological head, and she opened her rheumy eyes. “It is good to see you again, Owenhardy.”

“Were you sleeping?”

“I was dreaming of other timelines. The others are interesting as well.”

Owen was sure Commodore Pangloss would have liked to talk with the gypsy fortune teller. “And do you think all those places have the Watchmaker?”

“Every place has something like my father.”

He looked at the ancient crone who had been kept alive far, far beyond the point when her body should have failed like a piece of broken machinery. “Your father is the Watchmaker?”

“My father
became
the Watchmaker, and I became this.” The mechanisms in her artificial body moved her arms and raised her gloved hands, although her head remained anchored in place. “He was trying to save me, but I have lived long enough to come to my own realizations.” She wore a wan smile. “That’s what makes me such a good fortune teller.”

Owen leaned closer. The key was winding down, and the fortune teller’s mechanisms moved more slowly. “And what’s my fortune?”

The mechanical hands moved back and forth, pushing aside her tarot deck. Instead, she picked up a card on which words had been printed, a special fortune. “I always knew your destiny, Owenhardy, but I could not tell you until you were ready to hear it.”

“What is it?” he said.

She dropped the card into a slot. Owen pulled it out and read the words, which remained cryptic to him.
Tend your garden
.

The clockwork fortune teller wound down without explaining further.

A garden to nurture and protect

R
ather than just sitting by the fire and boring the grandchildren with stories, as I have done for so long, I’ve decided to write my memoirs—for all to read (or ignore). Everything I am and everything I’ve done deserves to be remembered, even if only by a few people who might care—like the boy, Alain.

When I see the sparkle in my grandson’s brown eyes, I recognize the thrill of imagination, a longing to go off and find adventures of his own. Maybe he won’t stay with the carnival after all, but will set off to find his own life, explore the world, or maybe even some of the other worlds, as my other-mother did.

I have given him my earnest blessing to do whatever it is that makes him happy. As I have learned for myself, there are dangers in encouraging too many dreams, but there are rewards as well. Who am I to choose for some other person? I love Alain and respect him, and I wish him well.

I know that all is for the best—because I made it so for myself. Sometimes stories are all we have, even if they don’t always fall into lockstep with memories, or facts. A long time ago, I was pleased and surprised to learn that even my father, in his later years, spent every night at the Tick Tock Tavern telling listeners about my adventures. I know he never understood what drove me away from a seemingly perfect life in Barrel Arbor, but in the end I think he was proud of his son, nevertheless. . . .

When I publish the book, I think I’ll make a point of sending copies across the Western Sea to Atlantis. It’s been too long since I visited Poseidon City. Given the right alignment of time and place, I’ll ask Mrs. Courier (or just Courier) to carry it on her shelves in the Underworld Bookshop. Maybe it will be shelved beside my other-mother’s travelogue.

Old Commodore Pangloss will get an inscribed copy; that goes without saying. Maybe other steamliner captains on long and tedious journeys will also be amused by my ramblings (both my rambling feet and my rambling pen).

I’ve seen and done many things. I know that I have plenty to tell, but the question remains whether I have anything to
say
.

A weathered stone figure stands at the edge of my garden, a statue of an angel. It cannot capture the beauty of the Clockwork Angels, but that is no fault of the sculptor’s. The angel’s wings are spread, but she is made of stone and will never fly.

There’s a practicality to tending a large garden, especially with such an extended (and hungry) family, which includes all the carnies. They work up a good appetite as they practice their acts and perform the myriad chores on the estate during the off-season. The strongman has to build up his muscles, the knife thrower practices his aim, and the clowns rehearse and rehearse so that their bumbling pratfalls occur with effortless perfection. Even the roustabouts have to haul heavy equipment, stake the tents, maintain the components of the Ferris wheel and the other rides. Everything has its place, and every place has its thing.

The harvest feeds them all, but the purpose of gardening isn’t

just to provide food. Beauty is its own reward, and I am quite proud of my flowers, too, especially the gladiolas. Tall spikes of blossoms, a name derived from
gladius
, or sword. A fitting name, although I would never engage in a flower duel with old Tomio; he could still outmaneuver me, I think.

Each fall, I dig the bulbs and store them in a cool, dry root cellar for the winter, and I plant them again in spring. I love watching the green shoots push like daggers through the soil. Family members indulge me, respect what I choose to do, and applaud the results.

I can mix and match the colors—yellow, crimson, peach, scarlet-fringed white, pink. The bees pollinate as they wish, while I have my own cross-pollinating schemes. Maybe there’s a bit of the Watchmaker in me after all . . . but I let the bees make their own hives wherever they like, and harvesting the wild honey is like a treasure hunt for gold. A life without risk is a life without
life
. The Anarchist wasn’t wrong about everything.

In Crown City—safely far away—the Watchmaker maintains his Stability, believing he is doing the best for his people. I don’t know what ever became of the Anarchist; perhaps his inner pools of poison ate his heart away. Maybe he died in an ill-conceived explosion. Maybe he came to his senses. Or maybe he still fights the Watchmaker in a constant tug of war between chaos and order. The pendulum swings.

I don’t think about it anymore; I have my garden to tend. I have to finish writing my own story, and I turn the page. I measure my life differently.

As the gladiolas grow in their rows, I see the colorful spikes of flowers, anxious to show off their blossoms to the world. They reach for the sky, but remain anchored to the ground . . . as a good dreamer should be. I cut several of the most appealing stalks and head back toward the house. It’ll make a beautiful bouquet for the dinner table.

Across our sprawling family estate, which I purchased using the accidental bounty of jewels from the Wreckers’ scoutship, rows of colorful practice pavilions have been set up in the bright day. At the game booths, carnies are adding a touch-up of paint, getting ready for the season. With a thump and a puff of colored smoke, another explosion comes from Tomio’s cottage—but it is a small, not-unusual explosion, so nobody pays much attention.

Our sons and daughters are practicing their team moves on the trapeze, a much more complex and breathtaking act than when Francesca performed alone. Laughing, they move together like clockwork gears, but they improvise as well.
Goofing off.
Some of

the grandchildren are being trained to participate in the act, but for them, it’s mostly just play. Other than nurturing and protecting them, the greatest reward we can give is to let them be children. When it comes time, they can choose what they want to do.

My Francesca is still beautiful, although she insists she’s no longer limber enough to perform her high-wire and trapeze act. She has happily turned over those responsibilities to our oldest granddaughter, Keziah. The young woman springs up on the rope, preparing for a complicated, dangerous, joyous trick. Knowing that we are all watching her, she performs with such grace under pressure that my heart skips a beat. Leaping high, Keziah spins a somersault in the air then pulls the cord, and her spring-loaded angel wings pop out. She glides to the ground and stumbles in an awkward landing. But this is just practice, just
play
, and we applaud anyway.

With a flourish (and a twinge in my back), I offer the beautiful gladiolas to my beloved Francesca, and she turns to smile at me. I find it unsettling that she has applied the extravagant handlebar mustache, just to get into character. The black jacket fits her nicely, but she will have to tie down her breasts to hide them once the carnival heads off again on its route. To me, the saddest part is that, upon assuming the role of César Magnusson after her mother retired, Francesca had to chop off her beautiful black locks. Nothing could diminish her beauty in my eyes, not even a mustache, but when I see her face I can’t believe that her striking femininity isn’t obvious to everyone else, despite the close-cropped hair. Most people take comfort in their illusions and they see what they want to see.

Keziah bounds toward the trapeze pole, ready to try again, although she has trouble latching down the springs on her mechanical angel wings. Her own children giggle at her contortions.

“Are you sure they’ve practiced enough?” I ask.

“Carnival season starts in a week, so they’ve practiced enough,” Francesca says. “We have to keep to a schedule, at least for some part of the year.”

In two days, the carnival caravan will leave our estate, far up the coast, and spend the season performing for village after village, ultimately reaching Crown City. They’ll play to large crowds, even in Chronos Square before the Clockwork Angels. They enjoy living in the limelight.

But I never liked to be the center of attention—the part I enjoyed most was being among the carnies. During the years I traveled with the Magnusson Extravaganza, I made a point of returning to Barrel Arbor so I could visit my father, while he was still alive. He was lonely but had fallen into a comfortable routine without me. At first, he was confused that I didn’t intend to stay, but he shrugged and accepted. “It’s not ours to understand.”