Authors: Jay Lake
Mainspring (4 page)
Hethor stared at the tabletop, willing the world to be sensible, simpler. No wish of his would change the deeds of God or His angels, however. “I came to you for knowledge,” he said slowly. “Seeking to understand from books what has really happened.” He looked up to meet the librarian's gleaming dark eyes. “I shall do as you have advised, take this feather and go to Boston, to the viceroy's court and seek William of Ghent. But first I must ask my master for permission to make the journey.” Hethor could only imagine what Master Bodean would have to say.
“And if your master forbids you?”
Hethor shifted in his seat, uncomfortable. “I am an apprentice sworn and bound. If he forbids me, well ⦠He owns not my corporeal person, but my time, labor, and the value of my training. To leave him unbidden, even to come here, is a form of theft. I could get the lash.”
“The Key Perilous may be legendary,” warned Librarian Childress, “but if it
is
real, its secrets lie close to the heart of the world.”
is
real, its secrets lie close to the heart of the world.”
“And so I will risk the lash.”
She just stared at him for a moment. “We each are responsible for our own souls, my friend.”
“Before God,” said Hethor. He made the sign of the horofix, an old reflex he rarely recalled anymore.
“Exactly. And before our own consciences. Which judge is the harsher is something only you can know.
But ⦠I will pray for you. As will librarians across the Northern Earth.”
But ⦠I will pray for you. As will librarians across the Northern Earth.”
Hethor rose from his chair, took his feather from her hand, then bowed to Librarian Childress. “Thank you, ma'am. You have helped me understand some of what lies upon my thoughts.”
She stood in turn. “Listen. There are those who may help you. People who care about such things. I will pass word along. If you think you might be among them, ask after the albino toucan.” She touched one of his elbows, then pulled Hethor into a hug, her gray hair beneath his chin. It was the first time anyone had really touched him since he was eleven, just for the sake of contact rather than to drag or beat him. Tears clouded his eyes for the second time that day. They stung his cheeks and made his face hot all over again.
Gathering his pride, Hethor strode out past the library porter into the New Haven afternoon. Turning left onto Elm Street to head back to Master Bodean's workshop, he thought he saw Faubus Bodean, Pryce's tall middle brother. But Faubus wasn't in the Divinity School. He studied architecture.
The silver feather felt hot in Hethor's hand and the afternoon streets were crowded, but the spring sky remained clear with a lovely breeze. He headed home, briefly managing to forget about angels and keys and albino toucans and divine will.
HETHOR PASSED
a pair of bobbies walking the other way on King George III Street. The sight of the policemen made him nervous, reminding him of how he had violated the terms of his apprenticeship. Walking toward Bodean's Finer Clocks, he noticed a horse tied in front of the store, as well as a taximeter cabrioletâone of the new electrick horseless carriages that had recently begun driving about New Haven.
a pair of bobbies walking the other way on King George III Street. The sight of the policemen made him nervous, reminding him of how he had violated the terms of his apprenticeship. Walking toward Bodean's Finer Clocks, he noticed a horse tied in front of the store, as well as a taximeter cabrioletâone of the new electrick horseless carriages that had recently begun driving about New Haven.
Customers?
Or trouble?
It didn't matter. Hethor owed Master Bodean an explanation of today's absence. He further hoped to beg Bodean's goodwill for a journey to Boston. He tried not to think about how improbable his own story would sound were someone else to tell it to him.
Hethor almost went around back to the stableyard, but looking at the horse and the cabriolet out front, he stepped to the front door. The cabriolet's driver nodded at Hethor and touched his cap. Heartened, Hethor set his hand to the latch and walked into Master Bodean's showroom.
Faubus Bodean grabbed the collar of Hethor's coat, the old corduroy tearing under his fingers as Bodean's son swung Hethor against the inside of the shop door. Hethor slammed into the wood with a booming rattle of the frame. The impact knocked the wind right out of him. Faubus hitched up the collar, yanking the coat upward until Hethor was forced to stand on his toes, which were wedged painfully downward inside his boots.
“Thief,” Faubus hissed, so close his breath was hot on Hethor's face, scented with a bloom of ale. Then, looking over his shoulder, “Father, the family's traitor is here.”
Hethor looked over Faubus' shoulder at Master Franklin Bodean and Mister Pryce Bodean, father and son, staring back at him. Master Bodean appeared sorrowful, while Pryce's face danced somewhere between suppressed glee and an attempt at somber pity.
“Well,” said Master Bodean, “and how was school today, lad? You're a mite late on returning.”
The question, so ordinary, was eerie in this situation. Hethor gulped, gasping over his tight collar where Faubus still held him high. “I never ⦠went ⦠sir ⦔
“So and you're not lying as well, I see,” Bodean said.
“Not yet,” muttered Faubus, once more glaring into Hethor's eyes.
“No ⦠sir ⦠I don't ⦠lie ⦠.”
“And you went over to Yale college, without my permission.”
“Yes ⦔
“To see my son.”
Hethor nodded, gasping hard for air now.
“Let's have it, then.”
Faubus dropped Hethor hard onto his heels, then slapped him, hard. “You heard Father. Where is it?”
Hethor rubbed his throat for a moment. “What?”
“The silver feather you stole from my son,” said Master Bodean.
“What!?”
Hethor's face burned yet again, his head hot and full as if he would rupture or have a fit. “That's
my
feather, and he knows it!”
Hethor's face burned yet again, his head hot and full as if he would rupture or have a fit. “That's
my
feather, and he knows it!”
“See?” said Pryce quietly to his father. “I told you he was cracked.”
“And where'd you come by the feather?” Master Bodean asked.
“I ⦔ Words failed Hethor for a moment; then he summoned his courage. “The Archangel Gabriel gave it to me, last night. Before the clocks began to chime.”
Pryce and Faubus both laughed. Master Bodean just looked sad. “And you didn't think to tell me this wondrous thing?”
Hethor stared at his boots. “No, I didn't.”
“I'll not be believing such a tale, Hethor. I can't fathom what would move you to rob my son, you being such a good apprentice and all, but angels from the sky handing out jewelry ain't in it.”
“It's not like that!” The tears were on his cheeks now, hot fountains of pride, even as his head filled with peppery snot. “He took it from me, and the librarian made himâ”
Another slap from Faubus silenced Hethor. “Give it up, thief, or I'll slit your clothes, and you, finding it.”
“She can tell you,” Hethor protested.
“A woman,” said Pryce, laughing. “
And
a clerk? No sensible man would take the word of such a person in a matter of this importance. They must have been in league.”
And
a clerk? No sensible man would take the word of such a person in a matter of this importance. They must have been in league.”
Hethor tried once more, staring at Master Bodean. “I'm telling youâ”
Faubus slapped him again, then twisted Hethor's right arm behind his back. “Give it now, if you have it,” hissed his tormentor, “or you'll be very sorry indeed.”
Shaking, Hethor pulled the feather from his pocket with his free hand.
Faubus snatched it away. “Here it is, Father, proof of his thievery.” He showed the feather to Master Bodean. “Shall I call back the bobbies and have this scoundrel thrown in the stockade?”
“No ⦔ said Master Bodean slowly. He was looking at Pryce, and the gleam in his oldest son's eye. “I'll just be turning the lad out. 'S punishment enough. You two go on, now.”
“Father ⦠,” said Pryce, touching the old man's arm. “Are you sure?”
“The boy's desperate.” Faubus shot another glare at Hethor. “He could try anything.”
“He'll be gone within the hour,” said Master Bodean. “And with no fight. Right, boy?”
Hethor nodded, miserable, shaking now in the wake of his anger and his shame.
“Go, sons,” snapped Master Bodean.
They filed out, Pryce smirking, Faubus with a sideways shove that sent Hethor staggering. Outside the taximeter cabriolet ground into gear and wheezed off, followed a moment later by the clopping of the horse's hooves.
Hethor stared at Master Bodean, who stared back. They stood in silence, surrounded by the ticking of the clocks, an endless mechanical wave brushing against a brass shore.
“'T'would have saved much trouble if you'd shown me the feather last night,” said Master Bodean quietly. “I'm too old to raise up another 'prentice.”
“It wasn't hisâ,” Hethor began hotly, but Master Bodean put his hand up, palm forward.
“I know it wasn't what Pryce said. I don't know the
exact truth, but you see, boy, it don't matter. My son's a man of learning, soon to take the cloth, and he's family before that. I
have
to take his word over yours on both counts. Not even with some female librarian testifying against him, neither. If he'd come to me private, without dragging Faubus into it, I might have talked around the thing to the truth. But I can't be branding my eldest son a liar in front of his brother. Even if I know he is lying.”
exact truth, but you see, boy, it don't matter. My son's a man of learning, soon to take the cloth, and he's family before that. I
have
to take his word over yours on both counts. Not even with some female librarian testifying against him, neither. If he'd come to me private, without dragging Faubus into it, I might have talked around the thing to the truth. But I can't be branding my eldest son a liar in front of his brother. Even if I know he is lying.”
“What about me?” Hethor cried. “I'm no liar. The angel
did
come to me, with a message, and left me that feather as token. The message will not be trusted without the token.”
did
come to me, with a message, and left me that feather as token. The message will not be trusted without the token.”
Master Bodean looked sadder. “You speak to me of trust? You, who didn't trust me enough to tell me about this wonderful message, and the token besides?”
“I ⦠I didn't comprehend it.” Hethor stared at his boots again. “I still don't. But once I understood more, I came home to beg your leave to go to Boston and see the viceroy.”
“You got your wish, boy,” said Master Bodean. “You've all the leave in the world now. I won't have you whipped or nothing. Your father's money was good enough.”
“I need to go upstairs andâ,” Hethor said, but Bodean interrupted him.
“I won't have you in my house. There's nothing up there that don't belong to me anyway. As I'm a generous man, you can keep the clothes you're wearing, though Pryce will shout me down for that, too.”
“Oh.” Feeling stupid, Hethor set down the books.
“Listen, boy,” said Bodean, even quieter. He shuffled across the room, looking older than ever before. “If you'd come into your journeyman rank, and done well, as we both know you would've, you could have taken over the shop as master when I laid down my tools. Now my sons will have the shop free and clear, to lease or sell. My money will be theirs instead of yours, you see. There's lots of reasons things happen in this world. You never
thought
why
I didn't ever send you down to Yale on an errand, did you? Keeping yer away from their greed was a big part of that.”
thought
why
I didn't ever send you down to Yale on an errand, did you? Keeping yer away from their greed was a big part of that.”
He hugged Hethor, who stood stiff, resisting the affection.
Bodean whispered in his ear. “Take your message to Boston, and Godspeed to you. What I've put in your coat pocket, it's what's left of your father's money. But you must leave now. I'll warrant the boys have set someone to watch the shop.”
Without a word, Hethor turned and walked out the door. Hugging his coat tight, he trudged along King George III Street, heading for the north side of New Haven and the turnpike to Boston. With a little money in his pocket, if it was enough, he might afford a train, or at least a seat on a wagon.
Two blocks down, Faubus stepped out of an alley with a pair of toughs who tripped Hethor to the stones of the sidewalk. Rifling through Hethor's pockets, Faubus found a roll of paper money, tied with a string. “Pryce was right; you
are
a thief, even robbing an old man on the way out the door,” he hissed. “If I ever see you again, I will kill you.” He kicked Hethor twice in the ribs before walking away.
are
a thief, even robbing an old man on the way out the door,” he hissed. “If I ever see you again, I will kill you.” He kicked Hethor twice in the ribs before walking away.
Hethor just lay against the wall a while, counting cobbles. Eventually a young woman in a Salvation Army uniform knelt beside him and asked if he needed help.
“No, ma'am,” he said, pulling himself up. “I must go to Boston.”
“'Tis a slow step you walk, lying on the curb,” she answered with a small, pretty smile.
“And a long trip, by the grace of God.” Pondering the miracles of the heavens, Hethor limped into the evening shadows, even as the rising thread of Earth's brass track gleamed high in the darkening sky.
HETHOR HAD
made it just outside the New Haven city line the first night before dropping to sleep in a damp bed of reeds beneath a rickety bridge. The second day had brought him to Cheshire, following the turnpike. This morning, after sleeping in a chestnut tree, he'd been offered a ride by an old man with a wagon full of May's first turnips.
made it just outside the New Haven city line the first night before dropping to sleep in a damp bed of reeds beneath a rickety bridge. The second day had brought him to Cheshire, following the turnpike. This morning, after sleeping in a chestnut tree, he'd been offered a ride by an old man with a wagon full of May's first turnips.
“Hundred and thirty-some miles from New Haven to Boston, as the boots walk,” said the farmer, who had not offered Hethor his name. He clucked to his team and twitched the reins. The pair of horses nickered, but they kept moving at their deliberate pace. The wagon rolled along an old country road, eternal New England stone walls following the right-of-way before shooting off at angles into the trees as the road rose and fell over ridge-lines and little rocky valleys to ford muddy, sighing streams.
“As the tired boots walk, sir.” On this wagon Hethor wasn't moving much faster than he had been afoot. At least now he was seated, resting his aching soles. A hamper between the driver's feet held some promise as well,
after two days of gnawing on grass and the three robin's eggs he had been able to scavenge.
after two days of gnawing on grass and the three robin's eggs he had been able to scavenge.
He would be damned before he would steal food, even to stave off the sour stitch in his gut. Not after the way Master Bodean's sons had run him out of New Haven for a thief. Thanks to them, he'd lost everything he had ever thought to have. Livelihood, a roof over his head, such family as Master Bodean had been to him.
The injustice of it gnawed at him.
“I'll be a-selling this crop to a man in Hartford,” said the farmer. “Reach there tonight, I reckon. Price is worth the distance. Gum darned if I know why they can't grow they own turnips up in Hartford.”
“Can't say as I have an idea either,” Hethor said politely, attempting not to let his irritation at circumstance into his voice. He flexed his feet within his boots, trying to decide if he could pull the blasted things off without too much effort. He'd need them again all too soon, he was certain.
The wagon rolled along with a quiet leisurely progress. After some while, the farmer stirred himself to speak again. “Feller could take a railway train, these days.”
“Yes, a fellow could.” Hethor realized the boots weren't coming off. Even if he got them free, Hethor was afraid his feet would swell so much he'd never get the boots back on.
Another little while, another flick of the reins. “Trains cost money.”
Hethor sighed. He couldn't very well pretend to be something he was not. “I'm broke, sir. Had some money, got robbed. I must get to Boston, though I expect the hurry's mostly in my head.”
“Heh.” The farmer gave Hethor a wide smile. “Well said. Any man's hurry is mostly in his head. But hurry or no, I can see that you're no tramp. Not with them boots and that coat. Too little wear on 'em. Yet the coat collar's stretched out and tore at the seams. Someone took a hard hand to you.”
Hethor rubbed his cheeks. The tears of rage, shame,
frustration, whatever, all seemed burned out of him. “You could say so.”
frustration, whatever, all seemed burned out of him. “You could say so.”
“Reckon I can share my lunch out with yer, if you've a mind.”
“I have nothing to offer.”
Too quick,
Hethor thought.
Too quick,
Hethor thought.
Another while, another flick. “Tell me a story. One I h'ain't heard before. Nothing about cows or farms or Her Imperial Majesty's tax collectors.”
Hethor thought back to his Classical literature classes, cleared his throat, and launched into a loose interpretation of Book Nine of Homer's
Iliad.
Iliad.
HOMER, SOPHOCLES,
and the
Aeneid
of Virgil got them to Hartford that evening, with a lunch of cold fried chicken and some good brown bread. The old man twitched the wagon into a marshalling yard behind a wholesale victualler's where a dozen more old men waited. Shouting lads unloaded some wagons, while others lined up by the stables, their teams unhitched and led off for the night.
and the
Aeneid
of Virgil got them to Hartford that evening, with a lunch of cold fried chicken and some good brown bread. The old man twitched the wagon into a marshalling yard behind a wholesale victualler's where a dozen more old men waited. Shouting lads unloaded some wagons, while others lined up by the stables, their teams unhitched and led off for the night.
“You're a right good talker, young Hethor,” said the farmer, whose name had finally been revealed as Thomas Mudge. “Practically a preacher. The boys over there, they've got a little feed laid on tonight in the meadow behind the yard here. You can join us and talk for your supper. I wouldn't mind if you'd tell some of them Greekie tales again.”
“Thank you, sir, but I must get on.”
“Get on where? In the dark? You'll fall into a ditch. And I know you h'ain't got no coin for hot food nor a warm bed. I'll show you around to the boys; might be some feller or another's got an empty wagon heading toward Storrs or Westford on the morning, be glad of the company. If'n he gets to knowing you tonight. Meanwhile, you can help those young lads with my turnips.”
An evening of alarming corn liquor and warm roast turkey went a long way toward restoring Hethor's bruised faith in human nature. He listened to tall tales about foreign
lands and the heathen magics of the Southern Earth. He told some of his own from history and the Classics, and fell under the spell of drink and firelight and the evening breeze.
lands and the heathen magics of the Southern Earth. He told some of his own from history and the Classics, and fell under the spell of drink and firelight and the evening breeze.
Late in the night, when it was his turn to talk again, Hethor stood up with a stoneware jug in his hand. The moon was so close to new as to be little more than a nail paring in the sky, and even the stars seemed to have retreated to their rest. Four or five of the old men were snoring under blankets, for though they had a little cabin to sleep in, the night was pleasant and the fire was warm. The rest still listened, bleary-eyed.
“Had me a visit,” Hethor said. His lips stumbled over the words. “Angel came down from Heaven.”
“How ol' wash she?” laughed one of the men, but another elbowed him in the ribs.
“No woman angel, I reckon. Taller than any of us, with feathers white as a swan's. Eyes like a stone. Told me to go ⦠go ⦠find a key. A dangerous key. So I'm off, now, to see the viceroy. Give him the word.”
“I've got a word or two for the visheroy myshelf,” said the heckler, laughing again.
“This a fireside tale, boy?” asked Mudge, who was still awake. “Or one of them old classy stories?”
“Real thing, sir, I swear it.” Hethor swallowed a burp. “I swear by the brass heavens.” He added on impulse: “And the albino toucan.”
Mudge was a beat too slow in responding, giving Hethor a sharp glance. “Boy knows how to move turnips,” he told the rest of the men, as though that were the highest of praise. “And how to tell a story besides. Voice like an angel.” He smiled sidelong at Hethor. “I'll stand good for him. Who's going east and north tomorrow?”
“Pierre Le Roy ish,” said the heckler.
“Le Roy'll take our boy, then,” Mudge announced. “And find him help on to Boston.”
“To Boston!” They all drank.
“To Boston!” said Hethor, waving his stoneware jug
before he collapsed in a widening circle that seemed to grow as big as the Northern Earth.
before he collapsed in a widening circle that seemed to grow as big as the Northern Earth.
THE NEXT
morning consisted mostly of a series of bleary-eyed grunts exchanged between Hethor and Le Roy. Even Le Roy's mules seemed to be recovering from the corn liquor. Hethor's head felt like it had spent too much time inside Master Bodean's grandfather clock, being beaten by the sweep of the huge pendulum. His mouth had definitely hosted a small battalion of chickens, while his gut was sour as a June apple.
morning consisted mostly of a series of bleary-eyed grunts exchanged between Hethor and Le Roy. Even Le Roy's mules seemed to be recovering from the corn liquor. Hethor's head felt like it had spent too much time inside Master Bodean's grandfather clock, being beaten by the sweep of the huge pendulum. His mouth had definitely hosted a small battalion of chickens, while his gut was sour as a June apple.
Le Roy's wagon lurched along the turnpike, Le Roy snoring at the reins. Hethor felt inclined to do the same. He couldn't find a way to sit that let him sleep, though, and the waking world intruded. Every sound was a magnified version of its normal self. Bees buzzing in pasturage, cattle grumbling over water and hay along the pike, every squeak and rattle of the bed of Le Roy's wagonâit was a symphony written by an idiot.
Hethor rubbed his eyes clear and stared south. That way, beyond hills and miles, lay Long Island Sound and the great Atlantic Ocean. Mathematics and common sense alike told him he could never see the Equatorial Wall from here in Connecticut. Though it was a hundred miles high, the Wall wasn't visible past about seventeen degrees of latitudeâalong Jamaica's south coast for example.
Yet Hethor could swear that in the rising morning light he saw brass glittering low in the southern sky to match Earth's brass tracks arching upward through the heavens.
He stared, rubbing his eyes again and looking over the low, close horizon. He listened past the idiot symphony, trying to hear the clicking of the world.
“It's one of them mirror-ages,” said Le Roy suddenly. “Preacher man explained it to me oncet. The air, it gets like to a mirror, and shows you that what's far away. Like how the fields look like they got water on 'em on a hot summer day.”
“No magic then,” said Hethor, vaguely disappointed. He traced the horofix across his chest anyway.
They rattled on in silence. Hethor thought about Gabriel and God, the Tetragrammaton. God in His infinite wisdom had made the world so, hung Earth in the sky on the tracks of her orbit around the lamp of the sun, then left it alone, for man to find his way. After man's fall into sin and error, God had sent His son to be the Brass Christ, redeeming man by showing the way to correct thought and deed.
Hethor knew there were heresies, folk who claimed that Christ had come to wind the Mainspring of the world again, and even that He was neither the first nor the last. Others said the world was built by greater men, just as men built fences and sheds for their livestock. As a clockmaker's apprentice, he was in a sense party to those heresies, for the very keeping of time was seen by the most strictly religious as a challenge to the brasswork of the heavens. Measuring God's work was held by some to be a questioning of the divine.
Still and all, life in New Haven had always seemed safely removed from the legendary realities of biblical tradition.
Until Gabriel had come to Hethor's room to lay a duty on him.
So what did he believe? In God?
Certainly.
Proof of the divine was incontrovertible, found in every aspect of Creation. It was hard even for heretics to argue with a sky full of brass, of a design so evidently driven by keen intelligence and vast power.
As for piety, well ⦠Pryce Bodean was pious, and probably someday to be a leader of the church. Hethor had full example of what Pryce's Christian compassion had bought.
He sighed, closed his eyes, and listened to the sounds of the world. God, or Gabriel, would find him soon enough
if either of them wanted him. Le Roy's mules fussed their way into Hethor's uneasy daylight dreams.
if either of them wanted him. Le Roy's mules fussed their way into Hethor's uneasy daylight dreams.
LUNCH WAS
cold turkey. Hethor ate slowly. Hunger warred with a general malaise. Le Roy offered him corn liquor as well, which he refused with an uneasy lurch of the stomach. The old farmer munched and drank his way through their rest stop in a copse of alders as placidly as either of his mules, while Hethor tried not to think at all.
cold turkey. Hethor ate slowly. Hunger warred with a general malaise. Le Roy offered him corn liquor as well, which he refused with an uneasy lurch of the stomach. The old farmer munched and drank his way through their rest stop in a copse of alders as placidly as either of his mules, while Hethor tried not to think at all.
The afternoon passed quickly enough. The wagon jarred Hethor out of his hangover in slow steps. Le Roy had nothing to say, which suited Hethor just fine, until they rolled into Storrs in the evening starlight. White clapboard buildings gleamed among towering elms that bordered streets as well cobbled as any New Haven boulevard. Storrs was a city that carried itself with pride.
Le Roy clucked the mules to a halt just outside the town center, laid down the reins, and shifted in his seat to face Hethor. “You sure you're set on a-seein' the viceroy in Boston, boy?”
“Yes, sir.” Was Le Roy about to run him off?
“They's a certain cut of man welcome at court in Boston. You got the city about you, boy, but still and all you ain't their kind.”
He hadn't been their kind in New Haven, either. Faubus had known no better, but Pryce ⦠well, Pryce was a different matter.
Le Roy cleared his throat. “They's folks there who judge a man by his shoes afore they ever look to see if he's got truth in his eyes. Old Mudge, he saw truth in your eyes, boy, but in Boston they ain't going to get past the mud on your boots.”
“I am who I am,” said Hethor. The archangel Gabriel had granted him a mission, perhaps the most important mission in Northern Earth. He had to keep moving. “I've only got my story to tell.”
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