Dark Age

by Robert T. Bradley

  The saloon was full of folk. Some stood, others leant on the bar and against walls; some were playing backgammon, others bent over card hands. Two men barged past them, both with blackened faces, blind drunk. One of them barged past Baxter making him stumble.

  ‘Hey watch it,’ shouted Tabitha, but the two men didn’t as much as acknowledge her.

  The saloon had a high ceiling and narrow corridors either side of them leading to darkness. Women in evening dresses accentuated their amorous assets. Over by the bar was a sign which read Rooms Available.

  Tables with men and women drinking from metal tankards, smoking on long pipes, feeding their soot-coated expressions with laughter and happiness. Stokers, miners, and drillers, the cracks in their faces carved in with constant heat exposure and filled with carbon. The black lines connected like the rail network which fed the city its trade.

  Baxter bent over the bar and made a gesture with his hand to the barkeep. In the light of the saloon, he noticed how tired Tabitha looked, ready for the terrible week of hiking to finally reach its end. The bed beckoned and a bath to clean away the dark days they each shared, such simple luxuries, taken for granted then, sorely needed now.

  The barkeep caught Baxter’s eye and waddled over. An average looking man of middle age, his clothing was the cleanest in the bar, his hair thinning, combed tightly to one side. He studied Baxter then looked at Tabitha, sized them both up from behind a pair of metal spectacles. From under his over oiled moustache, the words came. ‘If it’s a room you’re both after,’ he muttered in a croak which sounded scripted, ‘I would need to see your wedding rings.’

  Tabitha blushed.

  Baxter huffed. ‘We’re not married.’

  The barkeep looked over at Tabitha and paid attention to her hair. She gestured a hand over the top of it, shielding it.

  ‘Moorlanders?’ the barkeep assumed.

  Before Baxter had a chance to speak Tabitha piped, ‘Yes sir, my brother and I need one night’s lodging for this evening, we’re on our way to meet our father in the city, won’t be any trouble, both of us are tired.’

  The corners of Baxter’s mouth raised, impressed by her lie.

  ‘Okay,’ drawled the barkeep. ‘We ‘ave a twin room, an’ two singles. Take if you don’t mind sharing with this here brother of yours?’

  ‘It’s not the ideal situation, sir, as my brother can snore the scriptures loud enough for the Mother to hear him, but thank you kindly, I’m a deep sleeper on any a comfortable mattress and I hear yours are some of the best around, so this arrangement works perfectly.’

  Baxter’s expression blazed as though Tabitha’s words had hit him in the face.

  ‘Deep snorer is you, son?’ asked the barkeep.

  ‘I am,’ he said.

  Tabitha kicked him with her boot.

  ‘But I mean, err, only in the summer months, the flower dust plays havoc with my throat.’

  ‘Aye, you and me both, son. You want to get yourself on-board one of them airships around the summer seasons, none of the crap to tickle your senses up there.’

  ‘I’ll be sure to enquire.’ Baxter looked at Tabitha. Her face had twisted.

  ‘Well then,’ the barkeep folded his arms. ‘Thirty bob for the both of you. We offer fresh bread and an apple each in the morning and you can help yourselves to hot coal at the fire to heat your baths. You’ll find the water well outside by the troughs.’ He grabbed a set of keys and held them out, waiting for the money. Tabitha pulled the coins out of her bra and counted them. He put the keys on the bar and resisted following her hand to the ample bosom. Instead, he looked at Baxter and smiled as he rolled across two fresh candles. ‘If they run out,’ he warned, ‘they’re two pence each.’

  Baxter thanked the barkeep, and they both climbed the staircase.

  ‘How’d you learn to talk like them?’ Baxter asked, hurrying up the stair behind her.

  ‘Oh, was I talking differently?’ she puffed.

  ‘You sounded like you’re from the city.’

  ‘I’ve been a few times with father – must have picked up the lingo.’

  ‘I thought you said you only went once?’

  ‘Well yes, once, but we stayed for several days, I mean,’ she said.

  ‘My uncle Nicholas had a great voice.’

  ‘I know, Bax,’ she said with an upward inflection.

  ‘When I was little he used to read me Charles Dickens novels.’

  ‘Who’s he?’

  ‘Have you never heard of him?’ said Baxter, surprised.

  ‘We don’t have many books. I practically had to force my family to read.’

  ‘Dickens was a writer from the old times,’ Baxter explained.

  ‘Did he die in the world fires?’ Tabitha searched room doors for the correct number.

  ‘I believe so.’ He hurried behind her, squeezing between two ladies. ‘The stories sound a lot like they’re written about here and the city, I’ve read them since but I struggle with the words. But I’m sure you must have read them as you sounded like one of the characters.’

  ‘Which one.’

  ‘No one specific, you just sounded like them.’

  ‘You shall have to read one to me – here we are.’

  The room was modest with a bathtub separating the beds. The candlesticks were in a set of drawers and had an old mirror hanging above it.

  Tabitha jumped on her bed, stretched out and sighed in relief. ‘We’re going to get a good night’s sleep at last.’

  In the distance, the sounds of glass smashing and some old folks yelling at each other. Baxter cupped his ear. ‘You sure?’

  ‘It beats the Moor, Bax.’ She plumped up her pillow.

  He locked the door leaving them in a shrouded darkness where outlines were visible at best. Tabitha started undressing.

  Baxter twisted around sharply to face the stone wall.

  ‘I need to bathe,’ she said, ‘I feel like my skin’s coated in sootrail.’ She threw her clothes off and exposed her naked body to the darkness. ‘Bax, can you light a candle, so I don’t get water on the floor, please?’

  He fumbled around in the darkness on top of the chest, found them and eased one in. he produced a match from his top pocket. Striking it on the bed frame, he caught a glimpse of Tabitha’s body. The top of her thigh arched upward toward her stomach, creating a shape rounding off with the elegance associated with a woman’s beauty. Baxter knew in the split of the matches’ light she was no longer the silly pig farmer’s girl.

  ‘It’s ok, Bax,’ she uttered, ‘you don’t have to look away.’

  Her brazen behaviour was instantly desirable. How had it ever escaped him?

  ‘I respect your decency,’ he said in the firmest of tones, trying to sound convincing. He arranged his things on the bed, struggling to ignore the girl had suddenly become a woman.

  ‘I’ll go and fetch the water and the coals from downstairs.’ He noticed the suppression in his own voice and coughed.

  Later he returned to the room, head down, and went to the setting up of the bath, placing the coals one by one to heat the base while adding more water. From the corner of his eye, Tabitha laid out across the bed wearing a gown. Her hair was down around her shoulders. He released a gasp he didn’t realise he was holding, exploding his cheeks scarlet. He grabbed the stool and sat down next to the bath to check it.

  ‘What time are we leaving in the morrow?’ she asked.

  ‘Early,’ he replied, ‘shortly after sunrise.’

  She knelt opposite and placed her hand in the tub. ‘It’s heated quickly.’ She swirled her hand in the water. ‘Perfect temperature.’

  He smiled and stood from the stool.

  She stayed, moving her hand around in the water, stirring up the tension, making it thick enough to bite.

  Baxter broke away from it. Laying on his bed, he grabbed a copy of yesterday’s Mercury Gazette, blocking her from view. She got in the tub, foot by foot breaking the surface of the water. It
sounded as though she were doing it on purpose: inviting him in. The thought of her slender body, easing in hot water made his hands swell. His pulse pounded at the pressure points around his body, the heartbeat focused down to his trousers.

  She dunked in. A wave of water pushed itself over the side of the tub and sent a splash to the wooden floor. Coming up for air and wetting back her auburn locks she let out a sigh. Baxter laid still, the newspaper propped up as a barricade to the beauty dwelling behind it. He sensed her copper eyes trying to burn through the paper, desperate to reach him.

  ‘Hand me the soap, it’s just there, look.’

  He knew where she was pointing, pulling back the paper slightly to see her arm, tight, shooting out of the tub. The skin was flawless, paler than her face and smooth. He followed its direction and found the soap on top of the nearby drawer. He grabbed it a little too hard; it was softer than he thought, and his fingers dug in its shell. Taking rushed steps his foot slipped, sending his body across the floorboards towards the bath, he hit it, lost his balance and fell directly on top of Tabitha.

  Downstairs the barkeep kicked out the last remaining customers and heard a commotion above him, followed by a shrill of laughter.

  ‘Oh Baxter, you’re a clumsy fool.’ said Tabitha.

  He rushed up to his feet, soaked, he climbed out of the bath grabbed the towel. ‘I’m sorry, Tabs, are you ok?’

  Her laughter filled the room.

  ‘All in order, Mr Nightingale?’ the innkeeper’s voice and creaking steps drew closer to the door.

  ‘Fine, thank you, sir, everything is fine, I slipped trying to get in the bath.’ Baxter shouted at the door.

  ‘Okay,’ the innkeeper replied, ‘just try and be a little more careful, those floors can get quite slippery when they’re wet.’

  ‘Yes sir, thank you for the tip.’

  ‘Goodnight!’ Tabitha shouted in a snigger.

  Behind their door the creaking floorboards and footsteps disappeared in the distance until a silence returned.

  Baxter removed his wet clothing, his back turned to her. He dried himself off and got back into bed.

  ‘Baxter?’

  There was another stream of silence.

  ‘Yes?’ he replied.

  ‘Never mind,’ she said.

  CHAPTER 6

  The Gypsy Moth navigated the gas beacons of factory chimneys, coming in soft and level over the rooftops of the Seagrave Compound, leaving a smoky trail of exhausted gas in a trailing wake. Ahead the giant chains on the hanger gates beat out clashes of solid metal, clunking open the hanger. The light of a red waning moon pierced through, turning the blue overalls of the Seagrave ground-crew black. The Gypsy Moth hovered in with workers looking lively, tossing ropes in knotholes, locking them off and stabilising the ship to anchor as the aircrew assembled on her polished deck.

  ‘Good work, my fellow Gipsies.’ The Captain marched among the ranks, blinded by hanger lights reflecting off polished brass and leather. ‘Enjoy leave with your families. Before you all ask, I’m unsure how long we’ll have here, so make the most of it. And Johnson...’

  The youngest crewmember’s chin was close to vertical. ‘Yes, Captain?’

  ‘If Mr Folly catches you down another alley in Whitechapel district, be sure you’re not wearing your regalia, understood?’

  ‘Aye, aye, Captain.’ The boy’s pitched response erupted the crew to a fit of laughter.

  Shanks stepped forward. ‘Knock it off, you cruel bunch of no-good plonks. The lad was only enjoying the company of two ladies.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ shouted an unseen crew member at the back, ‘and what were you doing there, Shanks?’

  ‘Who said that?’ The first officer flushed scarlet. ‘That you, Carter?’

  ‘That’s it,’ the Captain shouted over the excited voices. ‘Grab your bags, and if you’re heading to the mess tonight I’ll come down and join you all where the elbow bends. Remember I have one rule for the bar, what happens in the bar?’

  ‘STAYS IN THE BAR!’ She knew she wouldn’t see any of them there tonight.

  The crew each grabbed a packed-out holdall they’d stacked up earlier against the portside. Mr Shanks stood still. ‘Madeline?’ he whispered, ‘everything...you okay?’

  ‘Yes, I’m good; looking forward to some ground time, thank you, Paul. Just a little nervous.’ She felt his hand on her arm.

  ‘Are you sure you don’t want me to go with you?’ Shanks pulled her round to meet his eyes. ‘He’ll want to know about your father.’

  ‘I’m perfectly capable of dealing with him.’ she said.

  ‘I never said you weren’t.’

  ‘You’re going home, Paul, to your wife. I’m sure she’s missed you.’ Madeline looked over the side and watched her crew joke with each other, returning to their loving families.

  Shanks’ expression grew pensive. ‘I’m not heading back to Sarah’s until the morrow. Got to pick me up fifty shillings from Rodney Howard.’

  ‘That old air hog,’ Madeline said, straightening her tunic, aware one their crew might walk out of the galley. ‘I heard he got posted on the Caesar, what was the wager this time?’

  ‘Let’s just say his lack of faith in the Moth helmsman got the better of him.’

  ‘Again?’ She laughed. ‘Shanks, at this rate, you must be taking his entire cut.’

  Paul scrunched up his nose; it was the expression she’d seen when ordering him to take the Moth below the hard deck. It filled her quickly with confidence in his experience but still frightened her.

  ‘Maddy, I mean it, if you want me to come with you just give me a few ticks to get washed up and I’ll–’

  ‘I appreciate the gesture but I’ll be adequate on my own.’

  Shanks tossed his bag over his arm, walloping his back. He noticed hers. ‘Can I at least give you a hand?’

  ‘Paul.’ She sniggered, trying to conceal her frustration. ‘Go to your wife.’

  He knocked his heels together, saluted. ‘Aye, aye.’

  Her first officer left the deck, leaving her alone with the ship. The hanger doors echoed their closing rhythm of deep clanging throughout the dock. The Moth groaned under her feet. In the foundering aperture of the hanger bay doors, clouds passed swiftly in front of the moon and she held her breath, listening their silent invitation.

  II

  The day’s shift siren sounded. Lucian watched the lights in the towers periodically extinguish, except two lights per tower remained lit for an extra hour. He timed them, as he always did, keeping a mental tally of the first to go out., shadows of shift managers, their heads bobbing while completing their logs. Lucian imagined they rushed the process. Children impatiently waiting at home clock-watching, unable to contain themselves after the strike of seven. ‘Father’s home!’ they’d cry, with their wide eyes filled with the pools of deep, unending love.

  Lucian walked over to his desk, where Cronus perched on a large bronze burst of Lucian’s late father’s head. Grabbing a nut from the bowl on his desk, Lucian handing it over to the raven. The bird waited, it didn’t plug it from his fingers, it never did, instead the bird studied it. Lucian met the crows eyes and wonder what he was thinking, why the hesitation? Was he like himself in that way, always assessing, measuring and trying with every ounce of his mind to figure everyone and everything out. Lucian eventually nodded and the crow took the nut. He patted Cronus’ wings and the bird made a series of chirps and jumped to his master’s shoulder.

  On his desk there were many envelopes which had long made it their home, collecting blankets of dust as he continued to ignore them. Outside, airship spotlights cast beams through the room and lit up the only painting. His first pet, Archer the black Mustang, taking an arrogant stance. Lucian’s leather shoes tapped the polished stone floor as he approached it, the sound comforting. He remembered the day his mother set up her easel, all morning Archer had been at his most calm. Typically a lively horse, he hated his stable, and even the large family fie
lds of their country manor frustrated him – he was a Moorlander.

  Lucian pulled back the painting, revealing his safe. Adjusting the locking wheel, there was a click. Inside several shelves housed many rolled up items of paper; he took one, opening it flat across his desk.

  The blue document held detailed drawings of a single-track rail system suspended high above the ground on a slender platform. Many smaller sections of drawings displayed advanced clockwork interconnecting components made up the design, all elegantly drawn in each of the blueprints corners. Lucian closed his eyes, caressing the raised ink of the drawings.

  ‘How’d you do it, Alfred?’ he asked the empty evening. Footsteps came from the other side of the room’s door, making their way down the hall. Lucian flipped the plan over. On the back, a large bright green symbol of the Nightingale taking flight. There was a knock.

  ‘Come!’ Lucian ordered.

  The old man entered and bowed. ‘Pardon me, my Lord, the Captain of the Gypsy Moth requests your council; she’s in the Scott Chamber.’

  ‘Can she wait, Sidney? I’m busy.’

  ‘She insisted, sir, something important to show you?’

  ‘Can’t it wait until morning?’

  ‘She has one of your probes, sir, profoundly damaged.’

  ‘Tell her to take it to the quartermaster.’

  Sidney coughed. ‘It’s been modified, sir,’

  Lucian tapped his fingers on the over turned blue print and sighed.

  Sidney noticed the blueprint under his master’s fingers. ‘Apparently with clockwork, my Lord. Should I tell her you’ll be a while?’

  ‘No.’ Lucian raised his head and smiled. ‘Thank you, Sidney,. I’ll be right down. But get her out of Scott, escort her to Drake, it’s lighter.’

  ‘Very well, my Lord.’

  Sidney left as Lucian rolled the paper up replacing it with the others.

  III

  ‘His Lordship shall be right down, Captain Barknuckle. Please follow me.’

  Madeline followed the servant through a set of double doors made of dark wood into a dining hall. All the chairs had placements set up in front of them, and beyond the table, another door where plates knocked together. ‘Big dinner party tonight, is it?’