Chiral Mad 3

by Stephen King

  “He ain’t angry about my challenge, is he?” asked John Henry. “I’d hate for the boss to be upset with me. Polly Ann and me, we really like this place and—”

  Captain Tommy held up his hand. “Mr. Daedalus is far from upset with you, John. In fact, I think he’s right pleased ‘bout what you did. I asked why he wanted to see you and he told me—as politely as possible—that it was a matter between himself and you, and it needed ‘immediate attention.’ His very words.”

  John Henry took his best shirt and tie from the closet and readied himself for the visit.

  “Real nice seein’ you again, Mrs. Henry.”

  “It’s Polly Ann to you, Captain. And you are welcome in our home any time.”

  “Thank you, ma’am. Maybe sometime John Henry will bring me for supper. He talks all the time about your rhubarb pie.”

  Captain Tommy escorted John Henry out to the long, black, shiny car that idled near the bottom of the hill. “Don’t you worry none, now, John Henry. But, if you and the boss don’t mind, I’d appreciate being let in on anything that might affect the crew.”

  “I will be sure to mention that to Mr. Daedalus. Ain’t right, keeping folks in the dark.”

  “Much appreciated, John.”

  The two men shook hands, and then John Henry climbed in the backseat of the limousine and was off.

  Now, John Henry knew from the other steel-drivers that all the fantastic machines that abounded within the camp were designed and built by Mr. Daedalus—who, before going into the railroad business, had been an inventor of some renown. If the television that came with the house hadn’t been enough, nor the voice- and music-box that Captain Tommy called “a radio,” nor the electric ice-box with its three different compartments that all could be set to different temperatures so’s to keep the beer cold, the eggs chilled, and the meat frozen—if all that weren’t enough to prove that Mr. Daedalus was a man of great mind (and even, some said, of supernatural power), then what John Henry was about to encounter would leave no doubt, for when the limousine pulled up in front of Mr. Daedalus’s resplendent home, the driver opened the door and John Henry climbed out—

  —to find himself looking into the face of a man made of metal—at least, his hands and face were, and John Henry assumed that the rest of him was, too. Bright, shiny metal, with only two red lights where on a regular man there would be eyes. The metal-man said nothing, only gestured for John Henry to go on up the steps and through the door.

  He did, and was greeted there by a another metal-man, this one dressed up as a butler, who escorted John Henry down the long marble hallway and through a set of oak doors into a study where a fire burned and music played from the radio and huge, ancient paintings hung on the walls.

  To the left of the magnificent fireplace was a large desk. Behind it sat a small, gray-haired, very distinguished-looking gentleman who was examining a set of blueprints with great intensity.

  “John Henry,” said Mr. Daedalus. “Forgive me for not rising to shake your hand.” He looked up from the blueprints as his hands disappeared behind the desk. There was a click, then a whirring sound, and Mr. Daedalus rolled out from behind the desk in a motor-powered wheelchair. “A little something I’ve been working on since the arthritis rendered my legs all but useless,” he said, then rolled right up to John Henry and shook his hand. “A great pleasure to meet a man of singular nerve such as yourself. Please, have a seat. Would you care for a drink?”

  “No, sir, nothin’ for me. Just had me a fine supper.”

  “Ah, yes. I’ve heard it rumored that your Polly Ann is an artist in the kitchen.”

  John Henry smiled. “That she is, sir.”

  Mr, Daedalus regarded John Henry for a moment, but not in an unfriendly or judgmental way; he looked at his guest as if he were seeing a fine work of art. “I hope my servants didn’t unnerve you too much.”

  “I have to say, sir, that I ain’t never seen nothing like them in all my born days.”

  “President John Brown commissioned me to build them as personal security guards for himself and Vice-President Castilla. They will be present at the signing of the Russo-Japanese Pact next month. There have been threats against not only Nicholas II and Emperor Meiji but any world leaders who attend. A pity that there are factions out there bent on destruction. Don’t you think it sad? I mean, not only will that agreement ensure peace between those two warring nations, but it will stop the budding revolution in Russia, as well. Do you follow politics, John? May I call you John?”

  “Yessir, please do. Afraid I don’t much follow what goes on in the world these days.”

  Mr. Daedalus smiled. “Probably a very wise thing to do. It can get awfully depressing.”

  John Henry liked Mr. Daedalus. The man spoke to him as an equal. When John Henry had said he didn’t follow politics, Mr. Daedalus hadn’t given him a look of disgust like a lot of folks would have—That’s what I get for talking to you like you have a brain—but instead listened and smiled and made him feel as if he were just as smart for not following the goings-on of world leaders.

  A nice man. Yessir.

  “I’ll come right to the point, John. Mr. Minos—charming fellow, isn’t he?”

  “Right cordial, if you like rattlesnakes.”

  Mr. Daedalus laughed. “That’s a good one, John. May I use it sometime?”

  “Be my guest.”

  Mr. Daedalus rolled back behind his desk and wrote it down on a sheet of paper, laughed again, then gestured for John Henry to move his chair closer to the desk.

  “Mr. Minos and I used to be partners in a design company that we started some years ago. We were both inventors—well, I did the designing and building, Minos sold the ideas to customers.

  “Mr. Minos became greedy, John. He took several of my prototypes—inventions that weren’t quite ready yet—and stole all my files, most of our profits, and disappeared. He re-emerged a few years ago with his own company—one that, might I add, had been built with my designs and money.

  “That steam drill he’s trying to force us to use? I designed it. I wish to God now that I’d burned the plans … but no use crying over that. Isn’t that always the way? One is more concerned with the immediate result, with succeeding, than with any long-term consequences.

  “Both Minos and I have sons—had, in his case. Perdix was a ne’er-do-well to top them all—a gambler, heavy drinker, loud-mouth, ladies’ man. One night about a year ago, he ran into my own son, Icarus, in a tavern. Kept going on about how his father was going to beats the pants off me, break my company, you know the sort of boasting. I’ll not sugar-coat it; Icarus can be an unruly handful himself, and he was a bit toasty on whiskey that night. To his credit, my boy didn’t start the fight, but he has a nasty temper problem, and when Perdix hit him in the jaw and accused me of being the thief, Icarus tore into him with all he had.

  “I’ll skip the sordid details. Suffice to say that it was an extremely violent fight, and Icarus wound up killing Perdix. Then my son did a most foolish thing, John; he ran off. I never knew to where. I received only one phone call, and that was far too brief to give me much to go on. I posted a reward for any information leading to the discovery of my son’s whereabouts. I would gladly give half my fortune for his safe return. Icarus may have his faults, but he is still my son and I love him with all my heart.” He rolled around until he sat directly next to John Henry, who turned to face the man.

  “Minos has my son, John. And I need for you to get him.”

  “I don’t understand, sir. How can I—?”

  Daedalus held up a hand to silence John. “What have you heard about me? And please spare me the nice things folks say about the wages I pay and how I treat the workers and the rest of it. There have to be rumors about me, and I’d like to know if you’ve heard them—one, specifically.”

  John Henry thought on it for a moment, then recalled a tall tale one of the shakers had told round the campfire one night. “There’s some folks that thi
nk you might have … well, Divine blood in you. Like Jesus.”

  Daedalus grinned. “Not quite, John. But I have, in my time, broken bread with uncanny beings.”

  His thumb hit a switch on the arm of his chair, and he rolled even closer. “I have supped with martyrs, saints, and angels, John. I have been commissioned to build for the Divine.”

  Looking into his eyes and hearing the awe and conviction in the man’s voice, John Henry didn’t doubt it one little bit. “I certainly believe you have, sir.”

  Daedalus smiled, squeezing John Henry’s hand. “Good. That saves me the time of having to prove it to you.” He reached over and pulled several sets of blueprints across the desk, keeping some for himself, handing some to John Henry. “You much for reading surveyor’s charts, John?”

  “I am. I can also understand most blueprints.”

  “Geological maps?”

  “Some.”

  Daedalus nodded. “That’s not going to be a problem, I can answer any questions you might have.

  “Now, one very important thing, John: Until the contest is finished the day after tomorrow—and allow me to say that I have no doubt you’ll rule the day over Minos’ contraption—until that time, I want your word as a good Christian man that what we’re discussing will stay between us. Not even your wife can know. I know that’s asking a lot for a man so honest as yourself, but ask it I must. Have I your word?”

  “Yessir.”

  “Good man.” He smoothed the largest of the maps on his lap, then turned it to face John Henry. “Recognize it?”

  “That’s—why, that there is the very mountain that we’re tunneling through!”

  “Yes.” Daedalus pulled back the top portion of the map to reveal an equally large blueprint beneath, one that looked to be part blueprint and part archeology chart, part geological map. “Can you make out what this is?”

  John Henry studied it carefully. “Can’t say for certain, sir, but it looks to me like that’s … that’s a sketch of what the inside of that mountain looks like.”

  “You’re right there. Do you see how it’s all solid for three-quarters of the way through, then there is this small chamber—antechamber, actually? That’s where you’ll enter to find my son. Minos has him trapped beyond that antechamber. That’s where you’ll find it.”

  “Find what, sir?”

  “The entrance to the Gates of Hell. I designed and built it.”

  “The entrance?”

  Daedalus shook his head. “More than just that. Hell, John. I conceived, designed, and oversaw the construction of Hell.”

  The morning of the contest arrived, and when John Henry turned the bend in the road to walk toward the mountain, he was stunned to see that both sides of the road, for as far as his eyes could see, were lined with people come to witness the great event. There were banners and a band playing songs and cotton-candy vendors and barbecues and even folks laying money on who was going to emerge victorious.

  The people cheered John Henry as he made his way to the mountain, his loyal and loving Polly Ann by his side.

  “They come to cheer you on, John Henry.”

  “Looks like it,” he whispered in reply.

  She took hold of his hand. “Don’t you fret none, honey. I know you’ll win.” She nudged him and then pointed to the set of cases he was carrying. “Are you gonna tell me what it is that Mr. Daedalus gave to you?”

  “A special set of hammers. Thirty-pounders. Said they was a gift from a foreign fellow of his acquaintance, a man named Thor. Told me these were the finest, most powerful hammers in the universe.”

  “That why you didn’t bring along your twenty-pounders or your daddy’s?”

  “Mr. Daedalus said these two would be all I’d need.”

  “I sure do hope he’s right.”

  “Makes two of us.”

  They arrived at the work site. Sure enough, there was Mr. Minos, looking arrogant as ever, leaning against his steam-drill and saying something to the Bull-man—who was checking the controls.

  John Henry grinned. He liked the idea of going up not only against Minos’ machine, but being able to beat it and that monster of a step-son driving it … that was almost too sweet.

  Don’t get uppity now, he cautioned himself. Ain’t no guarantee you’re gonna beat nothing, even with these hammers Mr. Daedalus gave to you. Pride cometh before a fall, John. Don’t forget that.

  There were a lot of people depending on him today. He would not disappoint them.

  “John!” cried Captain Tommy, pushing his way through the throng of steel-drivers and shakers who’d mobbed John Henry as soon as they caught sight of him. “How you feeling this morning, John?”

  “Ready to do me some work, sir. Been a few days and I get impatient.”

  Captain Tommy smiled and smacked John Henry on the arms. “That’s my man! You’re the best, John Henry, no man nor machine can best you!”

  The steel-drivers and shakers cheered, each slapping John Henry on the back or shoulders as he pushed through to the face of the mountain.

  He looked around for Polly Ann—he’d lost track of her when the workers rushed him—and saw her over to the side, sitting next to Mr. Daedalus and his metal-man attendant. Mr. Daedalus was whispering something to her. Polly Ann watched John Henry as she listened, then nodded her head, took something that Mr. Daedalus placed in her hand, and started over toward her husband.

  John Henry set down and opened the cases, removing the two magnificent golden hammers that Mr. Daedalus had given to him the previous evening. They shone bright as sunlight in his grip, and he swung both of them—one at a time first, then together, giving his body the chance to get the feel of their power—and powerful they were, for with each swing John Henry could feel his muscles grow tighter and stronger, and the rhythm in his chest and arms and legs and shoulders and head came together quicker than they ever had before.

  “I want you to think only of your brother Martin,” Mr. Daedalus had told him. “I want you very angry when you first strike those hammers against the mountainside. Spare no thought for anything else until you reach the antechamber, John Henry. You’ll not need a shaker, nor sharpened steel, nor dualin—only these hammers. And don’t ask me any questions—you’ll know why I ask this of you soon enough. There will be rewards for you, John; on that you have my word.”

  Polly Ann embraced him as everyone else moved away. The Bull-man powered up the steam drill, poisoning the air with an awful racket.

  Under the noise, Polly Ann leaned up and shouted in John Henry’s ear: “Mr. Daedalus asked me to do this, so don’t you be gettin’ mad.” She tied something to the back of his belt, but when he looked down to see what it was, there was nothing there.

  Polly Ann held a spindle in her hands but there was no thread.

  “He said you can’t see it in the light,” she shouted over the roar of the steam-drill. “But once you get into the deep dark, it’ll shine silver so’s you can find your way back if you get lost.” There were tears in her eyes as she finished speaking.

  John Henry’s heart welled with tenderness for her. He reached out and touched her cheek, trying to find the words, but he saw from her face that everything he wished to convey was in his touch.

  She moved back into the spectators.

  The sheriff stood at the mouth of the tunnel, one hand holding a pistol in the air, the other holding a stopwatch that he was watching intently.

  John Henry glanced at the Bull-man in the steam-drill’s seat.

  The Bull-man made an obscene gesture at him.

  John Henry raised his hammers, then swung them down once, cracking their heads together and producing not only a ringing that was louder than the steam-drill’s engine, but causing the air between the heads to spark.

  He looked at Mr. Daedalus, who nodded.

  The crowd fell silent.

  John Henry took a deep breath and held it, thinking: This is for you, Martin.

  The sheriff shouted very lo
udly, so as to be heard over the roar of the engine: “On your mark, gentlemen: Four … three … two … one—” He fired the pistol. “—go!”

  —and the drill was screaming and chugging and chewing through rock, and John Henry was swinging the hammers and singing “Oh, My Hammer,” “Water Boy,” “Where Is You Hidin’,” “If I Die A Railroad Man,” and every hammer song he could remember, all the time thinking only of his brother, of poor Martin and all the wonders of this here world he never lived to see, dying at the hands of ignorant, mean-spirited men who couldn’t see beyond the color of a man’s skin, and while he was thinking these thoughts the hammers swung and blasted through the rock like it was glass, sparking fire and lightning that illuminated the way, and John Henry began to realize, somewhere in the back of his mind, that the hammers were as much using him as he was them, for his arms were no longer making steady rainbow-arc swings, nosir, they were pinwheeling, hard and constant, and his muscles screamed but he didn’t care, this was a sweet pain, Lord, it was so sweet, because he glanced over his shoulder only once and saw that the light from the steam-drill’s lantern was several feet behind him, nearly swallowed by darkness and smoke, and he was far ahead and that was fine, yes it was, swing that hammer, make it ring, raise my hammer, hear it sing, and the rock blasted away in the wake of the hammers’ lightning, and John Henry felt tears in his eyes because he could swear he felt Martin right behind him, shouting, “You show ‘em, Big Brother, you show ‘em good!” and he was doing just that, he was showing them all, moving ahead, going faster, rock disintegrating under the hammers’ will, and he stopped only once to take a breath, having no idea how long he’d been at it—

  —and that’s when he saw a small sliver of reddish-orange light glowing from behind the wall of stone before him.

  John Henry wiped the sweat from his brow, lifted the hammers, made sure he was still in the lead, then struck at the rock in four successive blows—

  —and stood at the top of a stone staircase.

  Sulphuric fumes, made fiery and frightening from the reddish-orange light below, wafted up the stairs and around his head, trying to choke him, but the light from the hammers kept it at bay.