by Ward,Matthew
Edges
of the
World
An Anthology of Otherness
Matthew Ward
For Mum & Dad
This edition copyright © 2016 by Matthew Ward
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author.
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author's imagination, or are used fictionally.
Contents
Trailsford's Archway
Weeping Marya
The Sigh of the Sea
Survivors
Convergence
About the Author
Trailsford's Archway
The Tower of London
30th of October, 1841
Beyond the walls, the bells of London chimed. Ten o'clock. The appointed hour.
Vernon Dagworth swept his eyes across the gathering. A small enough group, an even dozen, but the paucity of numbers didn't concern him. These were the representatives of great men, important men – men whose thoughts and deeds shaped Great Britain and her Empire. And yet, here they were, hanging on his every word. Waiting for the wonder that only he could show them, so that they could carry word back to their masters in Whitehall and Westminster. Dagworth allowed himself a thin smile, already spending the money. A good moment. One to savour.
He had to admit, this was the perfect site for the demonstration, well worth the considerable trouble to arrange. Even half-emptied of its war-trove, the Tower of London's Grand Storehouse held an unmistakeably martial air.
Trailsford's Archway stood against the whitewashed rear wall: an uneven loop of gleaming black cast iron, twice the height of a man. Its forging had utilised the most advanced methods known, but it resembled an aged artefact dredged from some watery deep. The copper pipes only added to that impression. Some were a mere finger's breadth, others thicker than Dagworth's not-inconsiderable waist. Emerging from the base of the wall, they coiled around the arch's uprights like the tentacles of some leviathan cephalopod, feeding the forest of pistons, valves and glass chambers. Add to that the shadows cast by the guttering lamps, the hiss of the pipes, and the faint haze of steam, and you had a spectacle fit to instil wonder and apprehension in even the stoniest heart.
"Gentlemen." Dagworth bowed low. "On behalf of Mister Trailsford and myself, I welcome you to our little demonstration. I promise you will witness something quite beyond the realm of current understanding. Indeed, it is not too much to suggest that..."
"We are not a crowd of farmhands and layabouts. Kindly refrain from addressing us as such."
The speaker's voice was as cold and clear as his stare. Though well into his seventy-second year, Sir Arthur Wellesley, Duke of Wellington, had lost none of his forthrightness. He alone represented no one save himself, but barring him from the demonstration would have been quite impossible – he was Constable of the Tower, after all. Dagworth suspected he'd turned up just to cause trouble.
Dagworth offered a second bow. "Of course, Your Grace. Forgive me, the excitement of the moment..."
"Has been entirely too long in coming. Be about your business, sir. The sooner this nonsense is concluded, the better."
To suggest the work had strained Wellington's patience would have been to offer understatement of criminal proportion. The Duke had resented their presence from the very day Dagworth's work-gangs had first set foot in the castle. I have ousted one menagerie from the Tower, so naturally parliament sends me another. Those few words had served both as greeting and dismissal.
In the weeks since, Dagworth had seen the Duke but infrequently. On each occasion, he'd garnered the distinct impression Wellington was not so much interested in the progression of their labours, but concerned about the damage inflicted on his beloved fortress by the archway's installation.
Dagworth glanced in Trailsford's direction. The diminutive engineer fussed over the control cabinet, cleaning his pince-nez with the corner of a pocket handkerchief, and hunching to make himself even smaller, less of a target. That was precisely why he'd needed a partner to wrestle with the arduous duties of gathering official patronage. Trailsford was brilliant – Dagworth had seen that from the first – but sometimes brilliance needed a mentor, wise in the way of the world. Hecklers were nothing new to Dagworth. He accounted himself a thespian as much as a businessman – the soapbox was his stage. And yet... And yet, there was something in the Iron Duke's manner that shivered his confidence. For the first time in many a year, Vernon Dagworth found himself in the disagreeable state of speechlessness.
A dark-haired man, a little to Wellington's left, came to the rescue. "Please, Sir Arthur, a little patience would not go amiss, surely?" Horatio Blackwood spoke carefully and calmly, seeking to pour oil on the waters of the duke's stormy mood. "As you say, this demonstration has been a long time coming. A few moments, more or less, should be a small enough burden."
Wellington sniffed. "I'd expect you to speak in his defence, sir. Scoundrels always band together in a pinch."
Blackwood weathered Wellington's ire with the neutral expression of a man hearing old arguments. Alone of all the men in the room, he was unknown to Dagworth, both in aspect and reputation, and had only gained admission through the patronage of Lord Fitzwilliam of Carann Bridge. Blackwood was also twenty years younger than the rest of the audience – some forty years younger than the Iron Duke. Nevertheless, he comported himself with unfailing confidence.
"My form of soldiering may not be the same as yours, Sir Arthur, but it is soldiering nonetheless. There are ogres in this world more fiendish than any Corsican tyrant or Chartist demagogue."
"So you've said, sir, many times. Never with one whit of proof."
Blackwood toyed with the thick, silver ring on his finger. "And you sleep all the better for that ignorance, Sir Arthur. You have my word on that."
Dagworth suppressed a grimace at the cornucopia of implied slights. He glanced around the darkened room, hoping someone else might defuse the argument. It seemed no one wished to rise to the challenge – too many had crossed swords with the Iron Duke in the past, and come away the poorer. Even Sir Henry Gardiner, the Prime Minister's personal envoy, showed no intention of bringing the debate to a close. Indeed, Dagworth fancied he glimpsed a smile behind Gardiner's luxurious beard. There was little love lost between Gardiner's master and the Iron Duke.
Left with no other choice, Dagworth cleared his throat. "Gentlemen, please. There are certain matters of timing that must be respected."
Wellington and Blackwood fell silent, the former regarding Dagworth with an expression that was by no means pleasant.
At last, Gardiner spoke up. "How so?"
"The alignment of worlds." Dagworth spread his fingers, and mimed pressing together the two halves of a sphere. He caught Trailsford regarding him with a raised eyebrow, and realised he more resembled a child clacking two coconut halves in mimicry of a horse's hoof beats. Dagworth hurriedly let his hands fall to his sides. "The bridge can only be maintained at certain times, hence the lateness of this demonstration."
Wellington's lip curled. "Stuff and nonsense."
Gardiner shrugged. "That is what we are here to discover, Your Grace." He shifted his attention to Dagworth, his expression only marginally friendlier than the Iron Duke's. "Her Majesty's Government has expended no small expense on this wonder of yours. I hope, for your sake, that you give no grounds for disappointment."
All of a sudden, Trailsford's Coalbrookdale workshop seemed a long way off, his prototype archway –
all of a foot tall – impossibly far in the past.
Dagworth forced a smile. "In a few moments you may judge for yourself, Sir Henry." With a flourish, he turned to Trailsford. "Is everything prepared, Mister Trailsford?"
"It is."
Dagworth nodded his approval. He'd coached his partner to keep his declarations brief. In Dagworth's experience, nothing eroded a London gentleman's confidence faster than the muffled nasality of Black Country doggerel. "Then let us begin."
Trailsford turned back to the cabinet, and busied himself with his levers. Below the raised floor, the hidden tangle of cables responded, opening valves and unlocking pistons. The hiss of steam deepened to a low rumble. The Grand Storehouse filled with the groaning of stressed pipes. At the base of the wall, a pressure valve belched a cloud of vapour. A worthy took a hurried step backwards, his eyes wide with alarm.
Dagworth held up his hands soothingly. "A natural part of the process. Isn't that right, Mr Trailsford?"
The engineer didn't look up. "Indeed."
Trailsford's assurance found little purchase on the startled worthy, who eyed the groaning pipes with alarm. Blackwood looked on with fascination, Gardiner with wariness, and Wellington with the manner of a man trapped in the most tedious of circumstances.
Trailsford hauled on another lever. The tremor in the pipes doubled in intensity, and doubled again. The pistons began moving, jerkily at first, but gathering pace and confidence with each passing moment. The glass chambers slowly filled with a bubbling ruby liquid. Around the inside of the archway, electrum discs glowed a deep and brooding red.
"Is this damnable noise truly necessary?" Wellington had to shout to be heard over the din.
"All part of the procedure, Your Grace," Dagworth called back through cupped hands. "It will pass soon enough."
The glow of the electrum intensified, first to a molten yellow, and then to a brilliant white, blinding in the Grand Storehouse's lamp-lit gloom. A thin, green-white mist coalesced inside the archway, obscuring the wall behind. It grew thicker with each passing moment, and soon the whitewashed wall could not be seen at all behind the swirling mass. Trailsford hauled one of the levers back into its original position. At once, the clamour of the pipes receded. Within moments, the earlier not-quite-silence had returned, split only by the sizzle of hot electrum.
"Bravo," said Gardiner. "You have created a mechanism for projecting steam onto a wall." The comment provoked muttered chuckles from the assembled worthies. "I believe we've seen enough."
Dagworth wasn't concerned. He saw, where Gardiner apparently had not, that the mist was far deeper than the mere span of inches between the front of the arch and the face of the wall. It was working.
"A moment more, gentlemen, I beg you."
Wellington stirred. "You've already a good deal many moments. I, for one, am not content to squander any more on your ridiculous..." He broke off from his tirade, eyes widening. "By God!"
Dagworth turned, already knowing the broad strokes of what he would see, if not the detail. Sure enough, the space within the arch was no longer filled with mist, but the rain-lashed vista of a grassy hillside. A stone fortress of unfamiliar and alien design stood proud at the hill's summit, a town of patchwork and mismatched buildings cowering at its foot. The banner unfurled above the fortress gatehouse portrayed a golden dragon on a field of hunter's green. Figures, too small to identify at that distance, hastened to and fro on the rampart.
"A moving image," breathed Gardiner, stepping closer. "How the devil is it done?"
"It is no image," said Dagworth. "Impressive though that would be, I should hardly waste Lord Wellington's precious moments upon a mere image, no matter how prettily it dances." He indulged a smile, but stilled it at once as the Iron Duke's gaze fell upon him. "What you behold is precisely as promised. My colleague and I..." Dagworth ignored Trailsford's unfavourable glance. "...have bridged the barrier between worlds."
Hushed awe descended. For a time, the only sounds were those of the archway, and the scribble of pencil on paper as Blackwood took hurried notes.
"You mean one can simply walk through?" asked Gardiner. His expression belonged more to a child at Christmas than an esteemed representative of Her Majesty's Government.
"With the proper preparations, certainly," Dagworth assured him. "Though I urge you to do nothing hasty. The bridge is temporary only, and I would not wish for you to become lost in a strange land."
"Not so strange," said Wellington, gesturing at the hillside. "I swear I've seen that dragon before. This is no distant world, but somewhere on the Italian peninsula. I'd wager ten guineas that it's so."
Blackwood spoke without looking up from his notes. "Don't be foolish, Your Grace. Even if you're correct, the achievement would be no less miraculous. How many days march is it to Lombardy? How many days at sea to make landfall in Naples? If that is indeed Italy, it is close enough to touch. This is astonishing, simply astonishing. And dangerous."
Dagworth coughed. "I assure you, this is a place not of our world."
Blackwood at last raised his eyes. "You've investigated this?"
"Not... in person, Mister Blackwood, but a colleague of mine."
"And may we speak to this colleague?"
"Alas, his passion for exploration keeps him from us at this time. You are welcome to question him upon his return."
If he ever did. Dagworth hadn't seen young Toby since he'd passed through the archway. That had been three months ago, but there was no actual proof something terrible had befallen him. Besides, who'd miss an engineer's apprentice? Nobody, apparently, not once coins had been pressed into the proper hands.
"How the devil is it done?" asked Wellington.
Dagworth answered at once, glad at the change of topic. "It is a complex blend of scientific and engineering disciplines, Your Grace, building on traditions too abstruse to detail in such company."
The answer seemed to satisfy Wellington, who gazed thoughtfully through the arch. "Can this be made large enough to accommodate armies? Ships, perhaps?"
Dagworth grinned. He had him. "I knew the possibilities would leap out to you, Your Grace. Indeed, this is but a demonstration. Mister Trailsford has spoken many times of expanding the scope of his work."
"I think I'd like to hear Mister Trailsford speak of it now," said Blackwood, a wry note in his voice.
The engineer shrugged, lip twisting in contemplation. "It can be done."
Dagworth swept out his hand in grandiose fashion. "There you are. From the lips of genius itself. Mark my words, gentlemen, we stand on the brink of a new era."
"Think of it," breathed Gardiner. "New lands to welcome into our great Empire. Trade routes immune to the threat of naval blockade..."
The room collapsed into excited conversation. Dagworth kept half an ear on the hubbub. Gardiner was for immediate construction of another, larger arch, and rattled off a list of regiments that might be despatched as escort on the first expedition. Many of the worthies were vocal in their agreement, doubtless recalling the treasures that flowed from the ever-growing Empire, and seeing a chance to claim similar wealth for themselves. Wellington regarded the archway with a gnomic expression. Blackwood returned to scribbling in his notebook.
Beyond the walls, the bells of London proclaimed a quarter past ten. The fortress and its town faded from the arch, replaced by swirling mist. Trailsford busied himself with the cabinet, managing the complicated process of closing the bridge.
Dagworth cupped his hands. "Gentlemen! Gentlemen." The hubbub at last died away. "I'm afraid this concludes our demonstration. Rest assured, Mister Trailsford and I will be happy to answer any questions you might have and, of course, to discuss the matter of extending our operations."
Gardiner approached and shook Dagworth warmly by the hand. "I confess I had misgivings about your work, but I'm impressed – deeply impressed. I hope you'll consent to performing a similar display for the Prime Minister."
"But of course, Sir Henry. N
othing would give me greater pleasure." Dagworth glanced back at the arch, still full of mist. "If you'll please excuse me for a moment?"
Offering Gardiner a slight bow, Dagworth shuffled to Trailsford's side. "What's going on, Adam?" he breathed. "Close it down."
The need for subtlety passed clean over Trailsford's head. "I'm trying," he snarled. "Bloody thing..."
"A touch quieter, my dear fellow. No need to worry these good people, is there?" Fortunately, the outburst didn't seem to have drawn any attention. Gardiner stood directly in front of the archway, peering into the mists. Wellington was trapped in a doomed attempt to dampen his fellow onlookers' excitement. Blackwood chewed thoughtfully on his pencil.
"Bloody thing's not responding," whispered Trailsford.
Dagworth had a sudden, awful premonition of future wealth evaporating like smoke. "Then bring it to heel."
"What d' you think I'm trying to do?"
One of the glass chambers exploded with a sharp crack, spraying red fluid across the wall. That got everyone's attention. All eyes in the room were drawn to the archway. Sparks flew from the electrum discs. A pipe cracked, steam whistling into the air.
"Turn it off!" hissed Dagworth. He raised his voice. "Nothing to be concerned about, gentlemen. Just a little quirk of the machinery."
No one paid him any heed. Belatedly, Dagworth realised they weren't staring at the archway, but the shape within it: a tall shadow, its eyes shining a cold, clear green, and its body glistening like oil. He opened his mouth but, for the second time that night, no words came – they were frozen to his tongue.
Tendrils of darkness spilled across Gardiner's shoulders. One moment he was there. In the next, he was gone, dragged into the inky mass. He didn't even have time to scream.
Pandemonium broke out. The air filled with panicked shouts and the thunder of running feet as the worthies fled for the door. Trailsford threw his arms over his head, and cowered behind the control cabinet.