Ghosts of Engines Past

by McMullen, Sean

  “Whoever he was, he imagined that he really was a time traveller,” I told her.

  “But why did he do it?” she asked. “Nothing seems to make any sense.”

  “Obsession with the past,” I replied. “Some people really let it get to them, you see that sort of thing if you work in a library for long enough. I think he fell in love with Elizabeth Crossen. In a way it was a clever fantasy.”

  “You mean he was pretending to be a time-refugee, and pining for his sweetheart in the past?”

  “Yes.”

  “That is just magical!”

  How could I tell her the truth? Brandel had been killing Elizabeth’s suitors one by one, then travelling forward in time to read about how history had changed. It had never changed to his satisfaction, so he had gone on killing. Surely this said something about his chances with her, but love was apparently blind in this case. How many lives had I saved by driving him to suicide? Quite a few, I hoped, because I was feeling decidedly guilty. Could I be prosecuted for murder? Probably not. Accessory to suicide? Possibly. I could possibly plead self-defence on behalf of potential victims who had died back in the Nineteenth Century, and point out that I did it because there were no time-police... my head started to spin, and I decided to stay with the pretend-time-refugee story.

  “Brandel was reading of how Elizabeth married Robert Bell at the library tonight,” I said aloud, as much to solidify this version of events for myself, as to tell Harriet. “I watched him, wallowing in grief as he read of how his girl met, then married, another man. He was unable to stand it any more, so he killed himself.”

  “But he's not a real time traveller, is he?”

  “No, he's just done a good job of looking like being one. So far the police can't trace him as someone modern. As far as they are concerned, he might as well have been a time refugee.”

  “Hey, intense. Like, in a sense he had got what he wanted. He escaped these times, and died as a man from, er, when did you say?”

  “1810.”

  “Wow. As plots go, it's got a lot going for it.”

  “Yes, although it's sort of real,” I agreed.

  “Er, look I don't want to sound, like, crass or anything, but I don't suppose I could come over now, could I?” asked Harriet in her rarely used tentative voice. “I mean, to get a few impressions while they're fresh in your mind? This could make a fabulous book, in fact I think I could sell over a thousand copies if I get it out really fast.”

  I had seen this coming, and I did not mind at all. First I had lost Emily, and then I had developed something of a crush for Elizabeth before saving her for a life with Robert Bell. I was lonely, and Harriet was the sort of company that I really needed.

  “Better be quick or you won't get much sense out of me,” I warned. “I'm about to pour my third scotch, and I'm stretched out in front of a roaring fire.”

  “Give me just twenty, I'm on a scooter, remember?”

  The biographies of Elizabeth Crossen that I had hurriedly scanned and re-written from the originals, then self-published in runs of one copy each, had been quite slim. This was because in my version of history she had died in 1812. I read my tragic tale as I fed the last pages of the fifth book into the fire. I had Robert Bell taking the king's shilling and going to fight in the Peninsular Campaign against Napoleon in 1809. This he had done to prove himself brave to Elizabeth, yet in doing it he had lost his life. When news of his death had reached her, she had gone into deep mourning. It had only been after a courtship of three years that she had finally agreed to marry Edwin Charles Brandel, formerly of the East India Company. The marriage had been a brief but turbulent one, and had ended one night when he had beaten her to death, then shot himself out of remorse. Some of her last words, taken from a letter written only days before her death, were quoted on my final page.

  'He keeps railing against me for being bitter and disillusioned, and not being the girl he loved, yet how can this be? He only met me when fate had already squeezed the joy from my heart and rendered me desolate with loss. Edwin is just one of many who courted me, but fortune willed it that we should marry. Robert was my only true love.'

  When I had written the words I had hardly dared to hope that they really would drive Mister Brandel to despair. Like a shot taken at a dangerous gunman at extreme range, my words had struck home through sheer luck. As the last page burned I sipped at my scotch and opened my own copy of Abercrombie's definitive biography of Elizabeth Crossen. Mister Brandel was absent from the index, and both Elizabeth and Robert were recorded as living happily together into the 1860s. The lovers were safe, forever, in a fixed and constant past.

  The doorbell chimed, then Harriet rapped at the door and called my name. I let her in, and she managed to ask half a dozen questions about Mister Brandel and his suicide before she remembered to ask me if I was feeling okay and give me a hug. By then I did not feel like anything other than immediate bed and sleep without company, but I was very much in her debt. Harriet had taught me about vanity presses, print-on-demand publishing, who to contact, and what they could do in what sort of timeframes. Without her I would not be the anonymous publisher and pseudonymous author of five biographies of Elizabeth Crossen, each with a print run of one copy. Looked at from that perspective, the two of us were indeed a slightly peculiar version of Elizabeth Crossen and Robert Bell, and I even found the idea strangely alluring.

  3. THE SPIRAL BRIAR

  It is 1449, and although they had the skills and materials to build the steam engine in this story, they lacked the idea.

  The first operational steam device was invented in the Middle Ages. It was only a steam bellows, but it showed what could be done. While I was writing this story I decided to experiment with some ultra-simple designs for steam propulsion, and I came up with this design. I checked with a marine engineer, and he said it might work. I built a model, and it did indeed work. The story that requires a medieval steamship is one of elf versus engineer, spell against steam and magic against physics. This is steampunk, however, so naturally the elf is an absolute cad and we are all cheering for the engineer.

  ~~~

  It was Anno Domine 1449, and the world was about to change. An idea was approaching the market town of Keswick, just north of Derwent Water. The name of that idea was La Hachette, and she already had a following.

  The Brother

  1It is 2010. Some people just don't appreciate art, but a two mile long metal dragon with a serious attitude problem can do more than just sneer.

  Many people were a bit distressed by this story because they really like art. The problem is that a lot of nice things are bad for you, like sugar, tobacco, and easy credit. Can art be bad for you? Well, yes, if you aspire to be finger painting champion of the world. At some stage one has to grow up, and art may not be for grownups.

  Sir Gerald always rose from his bed a half hour before first light and walked from Keswick to the Derwent River. Every day, for seven years, the hour before dawn and the hour following sunset would find the knight sitting on a rock that had become known as Gerald's Watch. The rock was near a footbridge of planks and poles that spanned the river. His squire sat quietly some distance away.

  In Keswick it was well known that Gerald did not tolerate company while he waited and watched, so he was both surprised and angered when a figure came into view in the half-light before morning. At distance it looked like a man carrying an infant, then Gerald noticed that the bundle was glowing. The intruder stopped a little upstream. The knight was able to make out the shape of a helmet and the gleam of chainmail in the weak light.

  Gerald strung his bow before striding down to the water's edge. The intruder had arrived at the very worst time possible, and Gerald had opened his mouth to say as much when he saw a little boat on the water. Curiosity smothered the knight's anger.

  The boat was half a yard long, and six short, thick candles were burning along its keel. Astride them was the metal rendering of a long, thin dog, its head facing
backwards and its tail raised to display its bottom to wherever the boat might go.

  “Sir, do you know who I am?” asked Gerald, deciding to be polite because he was intrigued.

  “You are Sir Gerald of Ashdale,” replied a soft but commanding voice. “You sit here every morning and evening, seeking revenge.”

  “And who might you be?”

  “I am Tordral.”

  “The master armourer?”

  “None other. Look into my boat, what do you see?”

  Although inclined to tell Tordral to move on, Gerald looked.

  “I see a metal dog, and beneath it burn six candles. From its head protrudes a spigot... A sufflator! The brass dog is a sufflator. I have seen them used in France.”

  “Very good. Turn the spigot, and steam gushes from the jaws.”

  Suddenly Gerald remembered why he was there.

  “If you know me, you must know I am not to be disturbed,” he said sternly.

  “What use has a sufflator?” Tordral asked, ignoring the warning.

  “I—ah, they are vessels that are half filled with water and heated by a small fire until steam gushes from the mouth. They may be used as a bellows to make a fire blaze up, even in wet wood. “

  “True. Now watch.”

  Tordral turned the spigot in the dog's head. A jet of steam blasted from its mouth, so loudly and abruptly that Gerald sprang back and put an arrow to his bow in a single movement.

  “Be at ease, Sir Gerald,” said Tordral above the sharp hissing.

  The armourer aimed the boat into the middle of river, then released it. Amid clouds of steam, it drew away from the bank. Gerald crossed himself.

  “Had I not seen, I would not have believed,” he said fearfully.

  “As a child, I found that a rock flung from a boat's stern will propel it forward a trifle.”

  “But your boat flings no rocks,” said Gerald.

  “My boat is flinging steam.”

  Gerald stared after the boat. It was now moving at the pace of a walking man.

  “So, your toy can cross a river,” he said, again remembering that Tordral was intruding. “Am I meant to be impressed, or—It's gone!”

  “Observant of you.”

  “At the river's midpoint, it vanished. How? Where? It did not sink, I was watching.”

  “You know the lore of boundaries, Sir Gerald. This stretch of the Derwent River is special. It exists in both our world and another. The banks are a boundary between earth and water, the midpoint is a boundary between one half of the river and the other, but crossing between worlds involves more than just crossing a river. You can only do it where the boundaries exist in both worlds, and during the halflight boundary times, dusk or first light, that are neither night nor day. It must also be on a boundary day, and this day is the winter solstice.”

  “Are you saying that your toy has gone to another world?”

  “It has left this world, I claim no more.”

  Gerald walked out onto the bridge and looked down into the water. There was no trace of the boat. Here was none of the ceremony and incantation of religion or hedgerow magic, yet here was something extraordinary. He walked back to the east bank. Tordral was dressed in chainmail, but wore no surcoat or cloak, as warriors would. It was as if chainmail instead of cloth had been used to fashion a very ordinary tunic and trews. The helmet was an archaic type that left the lower half of the face visible, even when the visor was down.

  “Sir, what are your intentions?” Gerald asked.

  “I am an armourer, you are a knight. You need a weapon, I devise weapons. I have just demonstrated a weapon.”

  “That toy, a weapon?”

  “Oh yes,” said Tordral. “It can reach your enemy, even if your enemy is in another world.”

  “Tordral of—Tordral, what is the whole of your name?”

  “Tordral is all of it, sir. I have a past that is best left unspoken.”

  “As you will. Would you walk with me back to Keswick? It is past dawn, so my half-light vigil is over. Squire! Pack.”

  The Armourer

  Tordral was aware that Sir Gerald was not an ally as yet. Gerald was a warrior, and warriors were well known for being suspicious when faced with novel weapons. He had to be won over slowly, there was no advantage in pressing the matter too hard.

  “Your mode of clothing intrigues me,” said Gerald as they walked. “Why wear a helmet and chainmail, even when at leisure?”

  “It hides my form. I have been twisted by our common enemy.”

  Gerald smiled. Tordral feigned not to notice.

  “Ah, then be called my friend. May I ask of your boat?”

  He feigns quick friendship, to render me eager and careless, thought Tordral. Now is the moment for extreme care.

  “My boat has no secrets, it merely combines all four elements: air, water, fire and earth. It is a living creature, but without life.”

  “Impossible!”

  “By being impossible, it can cross between worlds. Rules do not constrain it, Sir Gerald, neither rules of natural philosophy, nor philosophy unnatural.”

  “Could you make it large enough to carry warriors?”

  “No.”

  Gerald gasped with surprise Anyone wishing to part him from his gold would definitely have claimed it possible.

  “But surely your toy is reality made small?”

  Tordral knew that this was an another awkward moment. Understanding the boat's principle required intelligence, and intelligence was not high on the list of requirements for knighthood. Still, Gerald came from a family that valued scholarship, so there was hope.

  “There is an effect called diminishment of scale, Sir Gerald. To be impelled by a jet of steam, even a small barge would need a sufflator of truly vast size. Try to build a sufflator bigger than a common barrel, and it will burst.”

  “Why is that?”

  “I cannot say. Perhaps the nature of steel itself, perhaps the ability of blacksmiths to render steel hard. A barge impelled by the biggest workable sufflator would not outpace a duck in no great hurry. The slightest breeze or current would drive it back.”

  “But you clearly want my patronage. What do you propose?”

  “A bombard, Sir Gerald. A bombard that can shoot an iron ball using air, water, fire and earth.”

  Gerald shook his head and gave a little snort of disappointment.

  “I have tried shooting a gonne across the river at half-light, just as I have tried shooting arrows. The shots merely hit the far bank. They stayed in this world.”

  “As they would.”

  “Well then, Master Tordral, what is a gonne but a bombard made small?”

  “Gonnes and bombards propel metal balls by black powder. That is merely earth driven by air and fire, but I can build a steam bombard to shoot balls of iron between worlds. Steam, which is water, rendered into air by fire burning wood.”

  “All four elements. Could you really do it?”

  “You have seen what I can do.”

  “And your fee?”

  “None.”

  “No fee?”

  “Our common enemy has twisted me, Sir Gerald, I want only vengeance. Just provide metals, timbers, and such other materials as I need. Beyond that, the upkeep of twenty men and women for three months, and one breech-loading bombard, made of bronze, with a bore large enough to admit a mailed fist without contact.”

  “An odd list. Costly, but not unreasonably so.”

  “The weapon exists only in my head, so it must be lured out with gold and toil,” said Tordral, aware that the knight's trust still had to be lured out as well.

  They reached a small tower on the edge of Keswick. Gerald took out a brass key and opened a gate in a high wall. Behind the wall was a beautiful but unkempt garden, with bowers and stone seats half-smothered in bushes and vines.

  “I must go my way,” began Tordral.

  “No! No, stay. For seven years I have been plagued by physicians selling eye potions t
o make elves visible, rogues peddling goblin traps, and fraudsters selling fairy nets. They demand gold, but offer no proof. You offer proof, but ask no payment. For that you have my attention.”

  “I am honoured.”

  “You say you were twisted by our enemy, your very name derives from the French word for twisted.”

  “Indeed, but that was not always my name. Are we allies?”

  “You tempt me. I have kept vigil at that bridge for seven years. I have seen eyes watching me that float upon air, I have shot good arrows with heads of cold iron at illusions that dispersed like smoke, and I have fallen into slumber then awakened to find my bowstring cut. Their laughter mocks me from invisible lips, yet still I stalk them, because... come in for a moment, I would show you something.”

  They entered the garden, which was bright with flowers and heady with their scent. Gerald turned about several times, his arms outstretched.

  “Enchanting, is it not? The illuminations in holy books show paradise as a vast church, but I think it is a garden.”

  “Briar roses, grown in spirals,” said Tordral, slowly pacing along a path leading to the centre. “Dozens of them, except for that big, wild bush in the middle.”

  “My grandmother was one to control people, animals, and anything else alive. It was she who twisted the wild and untamed briar roses into spirals. After her death, my sister Mayliene tried to straighten one of them, but it snapped at the base and died. She planted a young briar in its place and let it grow quite free.”

  “That central bush?”

  “Yes.”

  “A symbol of freedom amid those without hope,” said Tordral, nodding.