by Terry, Mark
She slapped his shoulder, “I’m no shrinking violet, mister.”
“Of course not, madam. Vampire never stood a chance.”
She clucked playfully.
“I’d like to take another train ride soon,” Tesla said.
“No vampires this time?” Ida asked, eyebrows raised.
“I don’t think so.”
“Might be boring.” Ida smiled.
“Yes, yes, it might,” Edison said, coming towards them.
Then a dry laughter glided in the soft breeze. Ida stood up, her head swiveling back and forth.
A voice spoke, "Whoever thou mayest be, beloved stranger whom I meet here for the first time, avail thyself of this happy hour and of the stillness around us and above us, and let me tell thee something of the thought which has risen before me like a star which would fain shed down its rays upon thee and every one, as befits the nature of light.”
Tesla turned. “I can’t hear the voice, but he’s in my head.” The others nodded.
“Fellow man! Your whole life, like a sandglass, will always be reversed and will ever run out again. A long minute of time will elapse until all those conditions out of which you were evolved return in the wheel of the cosmic process.”
“Master,” Randolph muttered, looking toward the sky.
“And then you will find every pain and every pleasure, every friend and every enemy, every hope and every error, every blade of grass and every ray of sunshine once more, and the whole fabric of things which make up your life. This ring in which you are but a grain will glitter afresh forever. And in every one of these cycles of human life there will be one hour where, for the first time one man, and then many, will perceive the mighty thought of the eternal recurrence of all things—and for mankind this is always the hour of the night."
“My God,” Edison rasped.
“You may never speak of this episode to anyone,” the voice went on slowly, “even to each other. You may not tell what you know of me or my children or anything that has transpired between us. For on that moment that you do, I will haunt your days and your dreams forevermore.”
Tesla, Ida, Edison, and Randolph all stared at each other for several minutes. Edison opened his mouth to say something several times. His eyes growing wide each time he started, but each time, he quickly closed his mouth. Finally, he simply stuck his hand out towards Tesla. The two shook hands.
Edison nodded to Ida and then the inventor turned to Randolph. “I’ll provide you with a decent stipend, but it will be better if you don’t come back to New Jersey.” He glanced around at the others. “Obviously, we can never see each other again. The danger of talking about…it…would be too great.”
Edison started down the mountain and Randolph followed. He stopped and pointed in another direction. “Go that way. Don’t follow me.” Randolph stood confused as Edison climbed down the mountain. Ida and Tesla watched Edison go and then looked at each other. Tesla still held Ida’s hand. Randolph shuffled off.
“Nikola,” Ida said, a finger to her lips.
He shook his head. “I know. It’s too dangerous. One thing we can’t talk about is one thing we will have to talk about, eventually.”
A last soft chuckle passed over the valley, wisps in the evening air.
“You are my motivation, Ida. You are modern woman. You must go out and awaken intellect of all women. Ignore precedent and startle civilization my dear.” Tesla caressed Ida’s cheek, rubbing away a tear. The two stood there until the dead of night looking at one another.
First Ida, then Tesla, turned and made their way down opposite sides of the mountain.
Epilogue
Friday, April 7, 1893, 4:55 a.m.
Lower Silesia,
Austro-Hungarian Empire
The S.S. Rotterdam which sailed from New York to Szczecin, Poland arrived on the early morning fog and mist. Redevelopment of Szczecin from fortress to major port represented the introduction of the twentieth century to Eastern Europe. Architects paid great attention to the appearance of homes and buildings and made sure that the front facades were impressive, featured rich ornaments and were decorated with sculptures. As the gypsy cart with a single driver made its way down the thoroughfare, an electric tram passed by. The horse-drawn wagon arrived at the end of the pier and made its way to the port side of the Amsterdam. The driver wore a dark green sukmana, a traditional working man’s coat, and a wide-brim, shepherd’s hat held low over his face to keep out the light morning drizzle.
The driver climbed down from his perch and approached the side of the ship. A large coil of rope vaulted over the rail and landed at the driver’s feet. He picked up the rope and looked up to observe a large object tied to the hoist being lifted over the side—a wooden crate seven or eight feet long and three feet across. The driver cocked his head and grabbed a firm hold on the rope as the object settled on the edge of ship’s railing and then went over.
It dropped ten feet and the driver fought to keep the wooden crate from swinging into the side of the docked vessel. The freight fell another five feet as the rope dragged through the cart driver’s hands. He let out a gurgle of pain but got a grip on the rope. Looking up he saw the crate hanging and spinning in the air.
Milo ascended the ladder and then stopped to watch. Slowly the crate descended to the dock until it came to rest on its side. As the driver was working to get the crate to lie top side up, the lid came loose. Inside, for just a moment, the driver could see a coffin inside the crate before Milo banged the lid back down. Together the two men loaded the contents of the crate onto the cart and covered it with a tarp. They climbed in and sat in the box seat side by side.
The driver let out a heavy sigh. “You mightn’t a tol’ me you were going to drop a box on me fly rink,” he said, taking off his wide brim hat and running a hand over a shiny bald pate.
Milo’s right eyebrow lifted as he looked at the man. He had just heard the man speak like he hailed from Dublin. Except for his red hair, he looked like Genghis Khan, right down to the heavy brow, the long Fu Manchu mustache and the chin beard.
“You going to be all right, then?” Milo asked.
The Hun’s eye twitched, but he smiled. “That’ll wake you up in the morning, eh?”
Milo nodded and the driver put the hat back on his head and shook the reins to start the nag. The Asiatic horse whinnied with annoyance. The driver shook the reins again, giving a slight nick-nick sound. The small horse shook its head but started forward. The cart with the two men slowly made its way from the dock, blending into the early morning gray.
They rode for several minutes in quiet before coming into a large town square downhill from what looked like the city’s center. To the south stood a magnificent Gothic cathedral. Neither man had looked at the other again but the driver seemed to decide something, straightened up and smiled a full set of white teeth at Milo.
“That be the St. James Basilica. Isn’t she grand?” drawled the driver.
“Hum,” grunted Milo.
The driver appeared not to notice. “My name is Altan. I move things from place to place. Bits and bobs. What needs moving, I move it.”
“You’re from Ireland?” Milo said without turning.
Altan smiled and nodded. “My mother died Hungarian. My father came about thirty years ago, as an engineer from Dublin. The Emperor wanted a railway cut from Vienna all the way to Warsaw. Too many nationalistic problems you see. Pesky native rabble to Franz, who dished out the typical English justice.”
“Altan isn’t exactly an Irish name.”
The driver chuckled. “No, it means gold in Mongolian. Hungarians believe themselves descended from Khans.” He shrugged. “They shagged enough of the women when they invaded that it’s obviously part of us.”
Milo glanced at Altan, who gave him his best Mongol warrior face. Without a word, the red-headed Hun leaped from the cart without halting it, reached down, ripped a raspberry bush from the ground, threw it into the cart and leaped bac
k into the seat. He rearranged his clothing before getting settled and breathed in deeply once before continuing.
“My mother died giving birth and my da took me back to the homeland. Da lived and breathed as a Nationalist for a free and united Ireland. They called my father Bricky. Brave he lived. Right up until some loyalist maggot killed him. That year, I turned nineteen.”
Altan reached behind him and pulled out a water jug. He tilted it back a few inches from his mouth and drank deeply, then let the rest wash over his face. “So, I left my friends and university and joined the loyalists. I spent a year and half as a gigglemug among the Ulsters, until I found the lad who killed my da.” The driver turned and grinned at Milo. “He’s having his sharts in a bag the rest of his life. Then I came home to my mother, so to speak. Good deal if you ask me.”
They rode in silence for a few more minutes, drawing nearer to the cathedral. Scaffolding and workbenches could be seen at the base of the spire.
“It’s the largest cathedral in Poland. The southern tower collapsed in 1456 from a hurricane, and they never put it back up. I think it would look better with two towers, me self. During the Seven Years War, it nearly burned down altogether, don’t you know. They renovated again, but keep having to start over from da hurricanes.”
Milo stole a sidelong glance. “I suppose you know all about the history of the city.”
Altan straightened in his seat but did not look over. “Well, I wouldn’t give you hours of lock-hard about it, but I do know my facts.” He pointed. “That there is the Ducal Castle. The Queen of Poland lived there with her daughters. They were always olagonin’ that the place felt too drafty, too smelly, didn’t look right. Good King Stanislaw had the castle renovated numerous times until he lost it to the Prussians in the Great Northern War.”
The cart turned east from the edge of the city and they crested a hill into a small valley with a glassy river winding through it.
The driver reached into his sukmana and came out with meat wrapped in a cloth. He bit off a chunk and chewed as he spoke. “That’s the Oder River. Eight hundred fifty-four kilometers long. Once past the Neisse, it’s all downriver. Until then the trend is northward to the Baltic.” A small dock grew as they neared.
Altan handed the bundle to Milo. “Rasher?”
Milo shook his head.
The Hun shrugged and went on, “This river is where the southern and northern European peoples first encountered each other. And they've been fighting over the land ever since.”
“So, they really do things differently here,” Milo muttered.
Altan chuckled as the cart pulled onto the river ferry. “Where we’re going, they do things differently.” He gave Milo a knowing look and flipped a coin to the barge master. An old man stood hunched over and barely looked up, but he snatched the coin out of the air with a hawk’s dexterity and it disappeared into his pocket.
“Toss him a zonk. It’s a long ride,” Altan said as he climbed down. The small horse bellowed its hunger and the Hun took the raspberry bush out of the back of the cart and set it in front of the beast. The animal looked at Milo, then down at the bush, and brayed annoyingly.
“Berries,” Milo said. The horse shook its head but knelt to eat. He watched the animal eat for a moment and then looked up at Milo, who hadn’t yet moved.
“We’ll be taking the ferry out of the Szczecin Lagoon and down to Ścinawa. It’ll take a couple of days. Toss him a zonk and you’ll get food and covering.” When Milo still looked confused the Hun rolled his eyes. “Toss him a pound.”
That night Milo and Altan sat on the hardscrabble of the ferry floor, thick rugs over their shoulders and a plate of mystery meat and beans in front of them, looking at the river, the riverbanks, and the night sky.
“We’re getting into Upper Silesia,” Altan said.
“Then we get to Lower Silesia. Is there a Central Silesia?” Milo asked sarcastically.
“No. Interestingly, the princes created a third Silesian principality in 1203.” Altan looked at Milo with deadpan seriousness. “But it disappeared in 1335 when the Holy Roman Empire incorporated all of Silesia.”
They passed mile after mile of simple stone or wooden buildings, lean-to’s, animals running loose. Few centers of industry or profession could be seen along the banks. Milo set down his plate, leaned over and fell asleep.
The ferry pulled up to a dock. A sign read, “Ścinawa.” Milo and Altan sat on the cart, blankets draped over them to shield their faces from the driving rain. The barge master hobbled slowly over, tied the ferry to the dock, looked at Milo and Altan and then bolted off as if chased by a bear. Both men watched the old man disappear into the downpour. Altan shook the reins and the horse slowly trotted forward.
The rain didn’t let up for four hours. They were in a particularly muddy stretch when the cart got stuck. The front wheels of the cart, pulled by the single onager, bounced over a fallen tree limb and splashed mud over the baseboard. The rear wheels struck the limb, but didn’t clear the obstacle. The Asiatic horse came to an abrupt halt, shook its head, and bent down to nibble at wet foliage. The Hun tugged on the reins, and the horse looked over its shoulder. The animal whinnied with annoyance and went back to grazing.
Milo jerked the wool blanket off his shoulders and jumped down. He shook a fist at the stubborn animal. “Your father mated with a Mongol ass!” he yelled. He went to the back of the cart and checked the covered cargo. Finding it still solidly secured, Milo gripped the rear of the cart and lifted, with the driver aboard. The rear wheels cleared the muddy branch. Grunting, the small man took one step forward so the rear wheels would fall beyond the branch, and then dropped the barrow back into the mud. The splash doused his boots and pants, but Milo seemed not to notice. He jumped back aboard.
The Hun looked at him with amusement. Finally, Altan shook the reins, glancing sideways at Milo uneasily, and the small steed trotted on.
As the cart came out of the heavy spruce forest, the rain cleared up. Milo found himself in the shadow of Great Owl, the highest mountain in Silesia. At the summit, stood a magnificent Gothic fortress with high towers and elegant roofing. But the citadel had also been built as a concentric castle, walls within walls.
“That’s the keep.” Altan pointed up at the mountain fortress. “This is where the Mongol hordes were stopped. Stopped cold. The Batu Khan had decided to invade Europe.” The driver smiled at Milo. “Europe’s armies were supposed to meet at Legnica.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Europe’s kings and queens dawdled, however, and the troops were not in place. The Horde had ravaged Lithuania and eastern Poland and were driving to meet their enemies one by one before they could link up.” The driver tugged on the reins, and the small horse turned slightly up a road laid with flat paving stones which wound up the mountainside.
“We built stone, concentric fortresses when the Normans were building theirs with motte and bailey. And the Keep has been in the same family since construction began.” He winked at Milo. “That’s Silesian nobility for you!”
As they wound around several curves up the mountain road, the cart made a final turn, and Milo could see the citadel come into full focus. Its thirty-foot walls and fortified battlements were imposing in the daylight, the mountainside falling into shade as the dark clouds danced together and blotted out the high sun. Milo looked down at the nearly sheer drop two hundred feet to the valley below.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” The driver shook the reins to keep the horse moving. “When the Batu Khan failed to bring Silesia to its knees and his divisions died in piles at the base of these walls, he fled not just here but Hungary, Poland, Lithuania and the rest of Eastern Europe, and took his troops to sack Persia instead,” the red-headed Hun spat. “They and the Muslims killed each other for another fifty years before the Khan’s grandson converted to Islam!” He laughed.
The gypsy cart pulled up in front of the keep, and the enormous iron gates swung open as a tall, handsome
man in a wool suit and top hat strode towards them. Milo stood up, turned around and climbed into the bed of the cart. The tall gentleman lowered the backboard, and Milo lifted the lid to the coffin. Inside, the pretty woman lay in state.
“Preserved, just as the Master asked, Doctor Frankenstein,” Milo said.
The handsome man touched Allefra’s ivory cheek. “She is beautiful,” he whispered.
Afterword
Nikola Tesla went on to create many more patents and provide dreamers lifetimes of encouragement.
Thomas Edison would be awarded one thousand ninety-three patents for inventions. Edison would spend years demonizing Tesla’s AC current in favor of his DC, but today, AC is the worldwide standard.
Ida M. Tarbell authored one of the finest works of the twentieth century, The History of Standard Oil. The investigative journalism masterpiece brought to light the company’s espionage, price wars, heavy-handed marketing tactics, and courtroom evasions. Standard Oil would later be broken up. John Rockefeller wrote that he only ever had one enemy in his life—Ida Tarbell.
Bram Stoker, Henry Irving’s manager, would write Dracula in 1897.
John Randolph, Edison’s bookkeeper, killed himself in 1908, after having spent many years in an asylum. He left a note saying he had always been honest.
A jury in Chicago convicted Mr. H.H. Holmes, owner and proprietor of The Castle, of killing at least twenty-seven victims in his hotel. The state of Illinois executed him in 1894 as the nation’s first serial killer. Chicago buried the killer encased in concrete.
Neither Ida Tarbell nor Nikola Tesla would ever marry.
About the Author
Why do I write? I write because the story is there and it doesn’t leave unless I put it down. Once I have gone through the labor of love to put the idea down in coherent and grammatical fashion, I am blessed that I hardly ever want to look at it again. And it has to be love. No one puts themselves through that kind of hell for anything less.