Clockwork Chaos (34 page)

His eyes were wide now, he again looked from Esmeralda to my unmoving face. Then he called out, “Stony? Stony, come here you dirty clanker.”

And the mechanical servant, feet clanging against the wooden floor responded immediately. He double timed it to the counter, obviously in far better health than anyone there could remember seeing him, and saluted smartly.

“You did this, Esme?” She nodded. “And this one?” he asked, jerking a thumb at me.

“My name is Leo.” I insisted again.

“My father made the parts years ago. I just put him together.”

“Kind of mouthy isn’t he?”

She shrugged, unsure of the direction of the conversation, “Dad redesigned his Edison tubes. They’re huge. They’ve got lots of needles, lots of layers. He’s got more memory capacity than I’ve ever seen and half of it was already full of instructions. There’s room for a whole mess more Edison tubes, but I installed all that was in his box.”

This caused Goins to hold up a hand to pause her for several seconds, “How old are you?”

“Fourteen.”

“I remember your father was one of the best gearsmiths, springsmiths, or steamsmiths that could be found for a hundred miles in any direction. Of course that was before your mother passed, before the iron ran out...” Goins rubbed his fingers through his kinky beard, fluffing it into even more expansive grandeur as he remembered, “Impressive lineage or no, I can’t say I’ve ever heard of a woman, let alone a girl, ever becoming a gearsmith.”

Something inside her went off like a firecracker and she pounded the counter with her little fist, “But I—”

She was interrupted by Goins slapping a quarter from the Incorruptible Cashier in front of her, “I seem to remember people telling me I was a fool because no Negro could run a shop profitably in a white town. Nobody would buy anything from him, they said. Yet here, I am, nearly the last man standing in this sooty little town. Well, I guess if you are a gearsmith, then you deserve to be paid.” He smiled graciously as he pushed the quarter toward the girl and began collecting her pile into bags for her. “Is there anything else you need?”

She blinked furiously at the change for a moment, then pointed to a black cape hung high up on the wall. He looked at her askance, but smiled and nodded when she slid the quarter back to him. She put the bags of candles, rope, apples, bottles of Coca-Cola, and other miscellany into her pack with trembling hands. She spun and with great flourish put the cape across my shoulders and affixed the clasp. She was breathing short and quickly, feeling the weight of this moment of validation with her entire soul.

She had shouldered her bag when Goins spoke again, his voice again somewhat abashed by the words, “Esme, you know that now don’t have to stay in this town.”

She looked at him with open eyes, clear eyes acting as windows to a soul that could only see in absolutes, “But what happens to Ironton?”

“Ironton is dying, Esme.”

“It’s not dead yet—”

“You have skills. You could go anywhere: Detroit, New York, Porkopolis, and support yourself. Maybe even your father, too.”

“—and they say there’s treasure in LøveSlottet.”

Goins looked left and right, expecting someone to jump out and announce the gag at any moment, “LøveSlottet? Those stories go back for years. He was even more talented than your father. He built the entire mansion as a giant gearwork, meant to act as his personal servant until the day of his death. Nobody has ever gotten into the place and then gotten out...” I felt the world
alive
hang in the air, “Trust me when I say there is no reason VanMeek would leave anything for anyone in Ironton in that building, young lady.”

She cinched down the straps to her pack and lifted her chin, “Someone has to try.”

“Esme! Esme! Don’t go to LøveSlottet! Esme!” Goins called, his voice obviously uncomfortable pleading, but we were already out the door and crossing the street.

We were a block away when she stopped me and, with tears in her eyes, she hugged me fiercely, holding on for dear life and breathing shallowly. She only let go after several minutes, wiping her eyes on her cuff, “Thank you for believing in me.”

I shrugged and held up my hands, flexing them in front of my eyes, “Thanks for putting me together.”

“Don’t mention it.” She smiled and began to walk again. I could
feel
her trying to shove her tears back inside. I was content to let her try as I followed. After less than a block she affected a light tone, “He was right, though, you’re pretty talky for a—”

“For a clanker?”

She shrugged. “I don’t think of you as a clanker. You’re a lot more advanced. You’re my friend Leo.”

“Friend?”

She hit me playfully on the arm, and then hissed and shook her hand while she giggled at herself, “You can’t tell me that word isn’t written in your head.”

“No, it is. But it does beg the question, why just us two?” and the question couldn’t have come at a more perfect time. The streets were becoming more broken, the abandoned businesses seedier, the streets even less swept than elsewhere.”Isn’t there anyone else we could call for help?”

And without meaning to, I had pushed her back into her melancholia, “They’re all gone, Leo. Their parents moved on to new towns, to find new jobs.”

The silence that was left behind had too many tears hiding in the folds to just stand alone, “You miss them?”

She smiled, but without warmth or humor, “I miss them all, even the kids I really never liked much.”

And we walked a few more blocks in silence, her shoes scuffing the road in counterpoint to my ringing brass feet.

“So what’s in LøveSlottet?” I asked to fill the void.

She pounced on the change of subject, immediately becoming more animated, “Nobody knows! VanMeek was the richest man in Ironton during the boom, and that’s saying something. He had the most mines, the best furnaces, the biggest mansion, the most beautiful wife, and an entire clockwork house for a servant.

“He became richer and richer, but when the iron ran out the whole town hit the skids. My dad says VanMeek was trying to find a way to save the town when his wife died. He stopped going anywhere, or doing anything. For a while his fortune kept the town going, but then he died.” But as her mood improved the neighborhood continued to degrade, “No heir. There were just instructions for lawyers to set the boiler to the house running, release the safties, and seal up the house.”

She went on as we passed a mostly empty bar, doors and windows thrown open. Someone inside was playing a sobbing harmonica, melting notes underscoringd the day’s heat. A few men loitered outside talking bitterly with one another. They all wore simple clothes made of hardy fabric, with worn work shoes or boots dusty from inactivity. They watched us with slitted eyes as we passed, and for some reason I desperately wanted Esmeralda to pitch her voice lower as we passed. Yet she continued, at full force and full speed, “He never got a chance to spend the rest of his money. So that means it has to be in there somewhere. Sacks of money. Chests full of treasure. Maybe even gold and silver ingots!”

We passed to the side of the bar where a crude ring was constructed. Under a huge, faded banner which proclaimed ‘NIGHTLY CLANKER BATTLES! PLACE YOUR BETS!’ A few men were working on big, brutish spring automatons. I caught the eye of one out of the gearsmiths. He had a face like a rat, and teeth like a fist full of broken glass. He immediately found much more interesting things inside the chassis of the tall iron gearworker he was fussing with. He was paying so little attention to us, I wished I could have done something to keep an eye on him after we left.

“But why not pass it out upon his death?” I asked.

Esmeralda pursed her lips as she gave me a ‘not you, too,’ look, “Maybe he was too old and forgot. Maybe he spent it all on whatever he was working on to save the town, but no matter which one it is we can save Ironton.”

I nodded, but inside I could not call myself convinced. The way the men had looked at us was entirely too predatory. Esmeralda had not noticed. She was trapped in visions of gold and jewels in improbable chests. It probably made coming upon what she had called the Bone Orchard all the more shocking for her.

The stone gateway was impressive in its austerity. It was marked only Woodland Cemetery in block letters, with rusting iron gates, doubtless taken from these very hills, hanging loose in the breeze. We passed through with the gravity of its purpose pressing on me, but amongst the thousands of ornate headstones I saw the remnants of toys and signs of disturbance.

“Someone has been here.”

“Someone is always here, well at least until recently. We always used to come here to play.”

“You play in a graveyard?”

“Nowhere else to go. It was far from the saloons and such, and there never was anything to do once the iron ran out.”

I nodded, but I wasn’t sure why, just as the idea of children laughing and chasing one another amongst the monuments to the dead made me uneasy, but I couldn’t say why. I jumped a little when Esmeralda grabbed my arm and pulled me along, “Come on, Let’s go visit Mom.”

And so we did, weaving in and out of the headstones to that of a pair of weeping angels. The one on the right read:

Shannon Kuhn,

1878–1906

Beloved wife and mother.

Esmeralda screwed her eyes shut and her lips moved feverishly. I reached out to her, but stopped short when the word
prayer
surfaced in my mind. Instead, I looked to the next weeping angel, and was surprised to see the inscription:

Agatha VanMeek.

1852–1906

In memory of my darling wife.

The world shall never know the future

it robbed to build an imperfect present.

Our legacy shall only be discovered

in the furnace of our dreams.

And I remembered reading that in the book back in the shack where I was...
Born
. It was the word I wanted, but I didn’t know if it fit. But Esmeralda tugged me back over to the grave of her mother and I stopped trying to figure out why it was important.

“This is my mom. Mom this is Leo. I put him together out of some project Dad had started a long time ago. I think you would have liked him.”

And then we just sat there for a minute as the wind meandered through the bushes and grass. Finally, I said, “Thank you Esmeralda.”

She flapped her hands in frustration, “Why do you insist on calling me Esmeralda?”

“Because that’s the name written down in my head that means you.”

She thought about that, and it sucked all the fun out of the moment, “I guess my dad wrote it that way.”

Then she stared at the grave for just a few seconds longer before whispering, “I’ll fix it, Mom. I’ll fix it all. I have to go now.”

She waved to the dirt at the base of the headstone, and I did the same before we were off again. I felt the need to wait until we were no longer in the graveyard before I asked, “Why is your mother buried next to Mrs. VanMeek?”

She shrugged, “Because they are both dead?”

The answer was so obtuse I dared not ask it again, but instead we walked in silence along gravel roads until Esmeralda decided to break for lunch. After partaking of her Coca-Cola, apple, wax paper bundle of crackers, and a slice of summer sausage, Esmeralda took out the contraption she had used on Stony and attached it to the axel I had not known protruded slightly from my back.

When she attached it I felt a little funny, slowed even, but as she spun the pedals with her hands I felt strange new vitality replacing the fatigue I had not even known was there. In a few minutes she had worked up a lather, but I was full of energy.

“I’m happy for you,” She said without feeling, “You get to carry the pack.”

And so I did. It was a good thing, for while the young gearsmith knew the way in the abstract, what seems a paltry nine miles on paper becomes a never ending affair under the feet. She started chattering about the kids she used to know, her teachers in grade school, reading her father’s gearbooks as a child over and over and over. Yet as the sun continued to beat down, the pauses between sentences become longer and longer. Soon she only had breath for her steps.

Though she wilted and drooped like a flower plucked from a field, she never complained or faltered. Even after she drank her remaining Coke and emptied her canteen, we just kept putting one foot in front of the other. We were constantly headed uphill toward the abandoned mines, the old pig iron furnaces, and LøveSlottet.

The hills became less friendly, more rugged, a craggy kind of beauty like an Indian astride a Palomino. We started up a long gravel path from what I assumed was the main road, and the terrain glowered at us even more deeply. To either side of the cartway trees had been planted to flank travelers and cast shade from their boughs. Now many stood dry and dead, still others bore blackened fruit that stained the rock and squished with the smell of decomposition underfoot. Still others had run wild, limbs choking out the light and sky and creating rings of brown grass and bare dirt underneath. It was in the shadow of such unfortunate things that we approached the mansion called LøveSlottet.

What Ironton was, so was LøveSlottet. It lay broken and battered like the victim of a crazed mob. Where the solid blocks of stone and planks of Ohio ash had fallen, perhaps they had not fallen as far as in town. Where they had been stained, however, they were nearly black. The windows were opaque with filth, all covered by bars but one. That one had a shutter of iron down over it, and a swath of black leading from the window away from the building. Grand carvings of lions rearing, roaring, and prancing had been broken or degraded to lumps of vaguely feline stone. It was as if it possessed a cancer of pure evil, eating the place from the inside out, and my metal guts fluttered to think about what we might find inside.

Esmeralda walked up to the front door without fear, and perhaps without noticing the sinister stains on the wooden porch. Even from where I was I could see no keyhole on the door, only an ornate doorbell to the left.

“Esmeralda—” I said as she brazenly twisted a knob held between the lips of a bronze lion’s face, setting a bell inside ringing.