Authors: Jay Lake
Mainspring (2 page)
He found Fayerweather Hall by virtue of nearly running into a signpost that announced the Berkeley Oval. Fayerweather was one of five such buildings standing on a circled drive just off Elm Street.
Hethor gripped his bookstrap tight and ascended the worn marble steps. With luck, Pryce Bodean would be somewhere within. With more luck, Pryce would agree to see Hethor. With the greatest luck of all, Hethor might be able to slip back into his own school without being suspended or worse.
THE ELDERLY
porter was almost kind to Hethor, making him wait inside a dusty room occupied mostly by wide-headed brushes intended for the cleaning of sidewalks. Hethor didn't mind. He stared out a grubby window set in an odd corner of the building's front and rubbed the silver feather between his fingers, careful to avoid the sharp edges.
porter was almost kind to Hethor, making him wait inside a dusty room occupied mostly by wide-headed brushes intended for the cleaning of sidewalks. Hethor didn't mind. He stared out a grubby window set in an odd corner of the building's front and rubbed the silver feather between his fingers, careful to avoid the sharp edges.
Elm Street was still slow and quiet. Here within the confines of Fayerweather Hall, Hethor felt a kind of peace.
Almost.
The porter came back, rattling the door as he opened it. “Mister Bodean will see you in the receiving room,” the old man said, balanced on the edge between dignity and pomposity.
“Thank you.”
Together they walked across a hall that gleamed with the labor of generations of charwomen. The porter held open a door eight feet tall and four feet wide.
No one had ever held a door for Hethor before.
The receiving room contained two tables, with chairs on each side, surrounded by book-lined walls. Tall, narrow windows faced trees outside. Pryce Bodean stood behind the second table, by his build and features a short, thin copy of his father. Where Master Franklin Bodean was ruddy with thick dark hair fading to silver, Pryce was pale, green-eyed, his sandy hair already growing sparseâhis late mother's coloration.
Hethor had known Mistress Bodean for less than a year before a stroke took first her speech, then her life.
“Have you an errand from my father?” Pryce asked in a clear, thoughtful voice, as if he were even now practicing to preach. “Porter Andrew implied that this was so.”
“No, sir,” Hethor said slowly. He had to be careful, lest Pryce simply have him thrown out, then send a message to Master Bodean that Hethor was skylarking instead of studying. “I am in sore need of advice.”
“An apprentice takes his guidance from his master.” Pryce allowed a measured tone of exasperation into his cadenced speech. “Surely my father can aid you in whatever petty concerns you have found to occupy your idle mind.”
“Not in this, sir.” Hethor found his words rushing out of him despite his resolve to be careful, not to mention his rekindling dislike of Master Bodean's sons. “This is a problem of ⦠of the divine.”
“The divine?” Pryce grew scornful. “Hah. Enough that you seem to be incompetent to work at my father's affairs, now you are also getting above yourself. What would a mere apprentice know of divinity? Have you even been to services of late, boy?”
“Not as often as I should, no sir.” Hethor stared at his morning-damp boots. They had probably first been
Pryce's, he realized, trying not to think about the trouble he was digging into even now. But where else could he go for the sort of advice he needed?
Pryce's, he realized, trying not to think about the trouble he was digging into even now. But where else could he go for the sort of advice he needed?
Pryce sighed, just as mannered and exaggerated as his voice. “Our Savior gave his life on Pilate's gear-and-wheel for this? A clockmaker's apprentice who cannot maintain the simplest of Christian obligations, then cheats on his duties to go wandering through the city. I should write you up, boy, but it would break my father's foolish old heart. Now what is it that you want?”
Hethor almost held back, thinking to excuse himself. It was clear that Pryce would not take him seriously. But he had come this far. He didn't think he could back out of the interview nowâbetter to try for the truth and hope that Pryce understood, than slip into the disgrace toward which his master's son would so cheerfully shove him. Hethor laid the silver feather on the table. Blood still darkened its sharp edges. “This is a surety, Mister Bodean, of a ⦠message I have received. Concerning the Key Perilous.”
Pryce reached out, touched the feather with a finger. “And what, precisely, do you think the Key Perilous is, young apprentice Hethor?” His voice was deliberate, slow.
Hethor noticed Pryce was no longer insulting him with every word. “I'm sure I don't know, sir,” he said quietly, praying silently to Gabriel and God that coming here had not been a mistake. Would the scales now fall from Pryce's eyes? Maybe the seriousness of Hethor's question was dawning on Master Bodean's eldest.
Picking the feather up, Pryce stared at Hethor. The green gaze seemed to deepen as some balance of impatience and consideration struggled within. Finally, like they were being forced out, the words slowly came.
“It's a legend, boy. Silly, magical nonsense from the Southern Earth, like the Philosopher's Stone or the Sangreal. People look at God's Creation, His tracks and gears high in the sky, and they believe that there must be
a role for themselves in influencing the progress of the stars and planets. People who believe in things like the Key Perilous, in ancient secrets and lost knowledge, those people can be dangerously unbalanced. Whoever put the notion of the Key Perilous in your head is no friend of yours, Hethor. No friend at all.”
a role for themselves in influencing the progress of the stars and planets. People who believe in things like the Key Perilous, in ancient secrets and lost knowledge, those people can be dangerously unbalanced. Whoever put the notion of the Key Perilous in your head is no friend of yours, Hethor. No friend at all.”
“He
gave me that,” Hethor said. Pryce was trying to talk Hethor out of his own epiphany. “An angel came to me in darkness, told me to seek the Key Perilous, and gave me that feather as proof of his words. Have you ever seen its like?”
gave me that,” Hethor said. Pryce was trying to talk Hethor out of his own epiphany. “An angel came to me in darkness, told me to seek the Key Perilous, and gave me that feather as proof of his words. Have you ever seen its like?”
“Hethor, any jeweler's apprentice could cast this from a simple mold. I've no doubt you yourself could, if my father kept such tools about his workshop.” Pryce sighed. “Angels no more touch the lives of ordinary boys than do kings and princes. Less so, for kings and princes walk the Northern Earth, while angels are just metaphors for God's divine agency within His Creation.”
“The angel was real,” Hethor insisted, still trying to rally Pryce to his cause. He was losing, though; he knew it. And Pryce held the feather. “Despite what you say. No metaphor at all. Gabriel was as real as anything I've ever seen” More real, in a way.
Edging past the end of the table where Hethor stood, Pryce walked to the door of the receiving room. “Go on about your business, Hethor. I'll have Porter Andrew write you a note that you were here at my behest. It may spare you some trouble.”
“My feather ⦔
“I'll return it to my father.” Pryce shook his head. “I don't suppose you've actually stolen it from him, as you wouldn't have the backbone to show it to me if you did, but an apprentice has no business with such a thing in his possession.”
The door clicked shut.
Despite his sixteen years, tears of anger and frustration stung Hethor's eyes. There was nothing more to do or say. As an apprentice, he was bound to his master almost
as tightly as any slave. Unlike a slave, when Master Bodean chose to elevate Hethor to journeyman, he would have considerably more freedom, perhaps be on his way to true independence. But for now, he was as powerless as any woman or child.
as tightly as any slave. Unlike a slave, when Master Bodean chose to elevate Hethor to journeyman, he would have considerably more freedom, perhaps be on his way to true independence. But for now, he was as powerless as any woman or child.
And he'd just been turned out like an errant brat. Without even Gabriel's tiniest feather to show for his visitation.
Hethor turned his right hand to look at the cut the feather had made the night before. Where he expected a thin scab, or perhaps an angry red line, there was only the faint key-shaped scar.
“By the gears of Heaven,” he muttered, “what does this
mean?”
mean?”
Porter Andrew handed Hethor a sealed note on his way out. Hethor scuffed back down the steps toward Elm Street, wondering what he was to say to Headmaster Brownlee, when he saw a signpost pointing toward the Divinity School library.
Libraries had books, with illustrated plates. Surely in all of history someone had captured an image of Gabriel.
He could find some proof of his story. Proof for himself, at the least. At any rate, it was another path toward an answer.
“MY MASTER
has sent me to find details of paintings of Gabriel, the Angel of the Annunciation,” Hethor said to the library porter. He waved the note from Porter Andrew, backside out in case the porter recognized the handwriting. He knew he appeared of no consequenceâa narrow-chested, sandy-haired boy of medium height, no different from half the young men in New Haven. Only the subterfuge of the note protected him.
has sent me to find details of paintings of Gabriel, the Angel of the Annunciation,” Hethor said to the library porter. He waved the note from Porter Andrew, backside out in case the porter recognized the handwriting. He knew he appeared of no consequenceâa narrow-chested, sandy-haired boy of medium height, no different from half the young men in New Haven. Only the subterfuge of the note protected him.
“Who did you say your master was?” The library porter was a young man with wide-spaced eyes and a face that tended toward vagueness.
“Master Bodean the horologist.”
The porter's expression narrowed, so Hethor hastily amended himself. “Clockmaker. My master is a clockmaker.”
“Horo ⦠horo ⦠what's a clockmaker need to look at pictures for?”
Good question.
The library porter was not as vague as he seemed. “Ah, well, we have a painted clockface we are repairing. There has been some damage to the brushwork. Master wants a reference to give to the artist who will be doing the restoration.”
The library porter was not as vague as he seemed. “Ah, well, we have a painted clockface we are repairing. There has been some damage to the brushwork. Master wants a reference to give to the artist who will be doing the restoration.”
The porter thought that over for a moment. “Very well, go in and speak to Librarian Childress. You will find her at a black desk through the second set of arches.”
Her?
“Thank you, sir.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“I'm not a sir,” grumbled the porter with injured pride. “I
work
for my keep.”
work
for my keep.”
Hethor grinned, hopped his way through a little bow, and scuttled inside.
LIBRARIAN CHILDRESS
was indeed through the second set of arches, two pointed vaults of granite that soared over a black-and-white marbled floor showing stylized representations of the twelve stations of the horofix, one for each chiming of the hour. She was also indeed a woman, behind a tall desk that resembled a priest's lectern, her graying hair pinned back so severely that it might have been painted on her scalp.
was indeed through the second set of arches, two pointed vaults of granite that soared over a black-and-white marbled floor showing stylized representations of the twelve stations of the horofix, one for each chiming of the hour. She was also indeed a woman, behind a tall desk that resembled a priest's lectern, her graying hair pinned back so severely that it might have been painted on her scalp.
Hethor knew little about girls and less about women, but he guessed Librarian Childress to be older even than Master Bodean. The skin of her face was lined. Tiny wrinkles folded tight around her deep brown eyes. Her lips were thin and bloodless. For all that, there was something compelling about her. He might have paused a moment to discreetly watch her had they passed on the street.
“I will assume,” said Librarian Childress, “that you told some sufficiently creative story to the porter to find
your way in here, rather than clambering through an open window like a petty thief.” Her tone was as cold and pointed as her expression.
your way in here, rather than clambering through an open window like a petty thief.” Her tone was as cold and pointed as her expression.
“Ah ⦔ Hethor felt even more foolish than usual.
“Yale students are for the most part not quite so young as you.” She sniffed. “Even our prodigies do not ordinarily wear work boots,” she went on. “Especially so stained and scuffed. You also carry three secondary texts on mathematics and geometry. Texts that any student here at Berkeley Divinity School would either have long dispensed with, if he were a Rational Humanist, or never have come near in the first instance, if he were a Spiritualist.”
“No, ma'am,” Hethor said.
“No?” She leaned forward. “No, you are neither a Rationalist nor a Spiritualist. No, you are not a Yale student. Or no, you are not a petty thief.”
He wanted to sink to the floor and crawl away. “No ⦔ Hethor found his resolve. “I have a question.”
“Then ask. As it happens, I can spare a few moments for an enterprising young apprentice such as yourself.”
Hethor felt like he'd just participated in an entire conversation that had never actually been spoken aloud. “How do you
do
that?”
do
that?”
“I look at what my eyes find before them, not what my mind expects to see. Now what is your question?”
“I need to see pictures of the angel Gabriel.”
“Archangel,” Librarian Childress corrected. “Perhaps you should be at the College of Fine Arts. This is the Divinity Library.”
“Please, ma'am, I was lucky to even get here. I don't expect I'll be allowed to come back.”
She sighed, then vanished briefly behind her desk before reappearing at the floor level. Librarian Childress was thin, and perhaps as tall as Hethor's chin, but somehow she seemed much bigger. She wore an ankle-length black dress that communicated absolutely nothing about the shape of her body. “Come into the reading room, young man.”
“Don't you want to know my name?” he asked, following her to a set of double doors carved with scenes from the life of some saint.
“No. Because then I can say I've never heard of you when trouble comes. Trouble does follow you, does it not?”
They walked into a room lined with tall shelves. Three windows at the far end admitted sunlight. It smelled of dust and paper and leatherâthe very scents of education and learning.
“No!” Hethor exclaimed. “I mean ⦠well, maybe. Now. But I'm new to it.”
She laughed. Her severe voice loosened like a brook running through the woods of Hethor's childhood. “A boy freshly grown to manhood? New to trouble? You've led a terribly straitened existence, my apprentice friend.”
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