The Golden Specific

by S. E. Grove

  “Moments later, he entered the cabin, arms laden with firewood. At the sight of her, the woodsman beamed. Edolie felt a murmur in her heart, and she wondered at how the Faieries had been so wise, despite all their petty cruelty, to lead her to this place, in these woods.

  “You will imagine how that day passed for Edolie and the woodsman. They spent all morning talking, and then morning gave way to afternoon. The woodsman was wise and funny and just the tiniest bit wistful. Edolie knew she should return to the village, but part of her never wanted to leave. Nor did the woodsman speak of guiding her back to safety. The day grew longer, and finally Edolie felt that she must think of going home, even if she did not want to. ‘It will be getting dark soon,’ she said regretfully, ‘and I should go back.’

  “The woodsman looked at her—no longer wistful, but truly sad. ‘Do you want to return?’

  “Edolie shook her head. ‘I don’t want to, but I must.’

  “‘Very well,’ the woodsman said, his face heavy with sadness. ‘I will lead you back to your village.’

  “Edolie did not speak as he made his preparations to leave the cabin. She regretted leaving, but she could not understand the woodsman’s grief. After all, she thought to herself, surely she could find her way back to the cabin, or he could find his way to the village. They would see one another again, wouldn’t they?

  “It was a long journey through the forest. As they walked through the woods in silence, with the pines rustling around them and the still-naked branches of the oaks clattering in reply, Edolie found herself wondering about the Faieries that had taken her captive the night before. She was not sure why it had not occurred to her sooner, but she wondered about the way they had stopped so close to the cabin, when surely they had the power to reach her. And she wondered at how the woodsman traveled through the forest without any concern. How was it that he came to be living there, alone?

  “Edolie glanced up at her walking companion and saw, not entirely to her surprise, that his long cape of green wool had taken on the leafy texture of Faierie garments. She could see his strong hands, now and then, lifting aside a branch so that it would not fall upon her, and they were pale in the dappled light. Edolie realized that they were nearing the edge of the forest. She could see, between the tree trunks, the rolling green hills of the field that bordered the forest. ‘Stop,’ she said.

  “The woodsman turned to face her. It was the familiar face she already loved, but altered. There were flecks of gold in his eyes, and those eyes were filled with sadness.

  “‘How could you?’ Edolie asked, aggrieved. She gazed with pain and longing at the face of the Faierie King and understood, at last, how that malady she had heard described could be so terrible and so wondrous at the same time.

  “He looked back at her, sharing her distress. ‘I did not want to,’ he whispered.

  “‘Why not just speak to me as you are?’

  “‘I knew you had forgotten me,’ he replied, ‘and I could not think how to make you remember.’ He held out his hand, pale with green veins, and Edolie saw the ring on his forefinger: a strand of hair wound tight, the color of her own. ‘We were only children. I would not have held you to the promise, had I been able to forget you, in turn. But I could not.’”

  “Edolie gazed with horror at the ring, and she knew that he was right. Those imagined hours in the forest had not been imagined at all. The beloved figure before her, so many years absent, had been in her heart since childhood. And she could see that the Faierie felt as she did, both of them wanting and not wanting that slim bond between them cut. She took his hand. ‘What will happen if I cut it?’

  “‘I cannot say if what exists between us is only the binding power of that strand, or if it is something that stands alone.’

  “Quickly, before she could change her mind, Edolie bent toward his hand and cut with her teeth the strand of hair that her childhood self had placed on the finger of the Faierie King. She tossed it to the side and looked up at him, expecting anger or indifference or something worse. Instead, she saw the face of the woodsman who had knelt over her hands by his hearth: smiling, eyes filled with delight at the prospect of surprising her.”

  Errol rode on, his eyes thoughtful. He glanced up at Seneca, who cast a brief shadow over him.

  “That is the end?” Sophia asked.

  “That is the end,” he replied.

  “What does it mean?”

  Errol ran his fingers along his chin. “What do you think it means?”

  “I think it is about the danger of losing your heart to the forest,” Rosemary said promptly. “The danger of being lost so young to a dark force you do not and cannot understand.”

  “You see it as a warning,” Goldenrod reflected. “Perhaps it is. To me, it is about the power of the things we do not remember. Things will happen, and they may vanish from your mind, but they will bind you as tightly as a chain. And this is not always a bad thing.”

  “I think it is about trusting people,” Sophia put in. “And trusting your own heart. Everything Edolie did was dangerous and even foolish, but it ended in happiness.”

  “Trusting people,” Goldenrod echoed. “Perhaps. But is it truly about people? Something I have observed about such stories is that they are often about the old ones, even when they do not seem to be. Consider the powerful pull of the forest, the way it drew Edolie without her comprehension. This seems true because it actually happens. The Climes have a way of working through us.”

  Errol shook his head. “And here I was, thinking it was a simple love story.”

  “I find it unlikely you thought that,” Rosemary said dryly. She pointed ahead. “Your story has carried us far. We are less than an hour from the perimeter.”

  “I must ask,” he said, “what we plan to do when we reach it. If I understood the sheriff’s map correctly, anyone who tries to set foot on the patches of Ausentinia that still remain is made faceless by this wind from the Dark Age.”

  “It is not the wind,” Goldenrod corrected. “It is the moving border.”

  “However it happens,” Errol continued, “you cannot speak to this Clime, the Dark Age, so we cannot negotiate our way forward. And while Sophia’s map to Ausentinia may foretell the inevitable, as Rosemary contends, it is not terribly precise. What did it say? ‘Dread or Desire’? I somehow doubt we will find signposts at the edge of the Dark Age.”

  “I have been thinking about it,” Sophia said, taking the precious map from her pocket. “The path divides, leading to the Steep Ridge of Dread or the Low Dunes of Desire. The Low Dunes lead to Bitter Desert, where you find yourself descending into the Cave of Blindness. From there, you may or may not return. Along the Steep Ridge of Dread, the golden birds turn to black. The falconer and the warbler defend you.” She looked at Errol and Rosemary. “Dread or Desire. I think I understand what it is we have to do. We desire to reach Ausentinia, and it would be tempting to find pieces of that Age if we can. But that is the wrong path. Did you notice that in Cabeza de Cabra’s map, the Dark Age devoured any portion of Ausentinia where a person stood? But Ausentinia did not do the same.”

  “I see what you mean,” Goldenrod said slowly. “Whatever provokes the Dark Age to shift its border does not so provoke Ausentinia.”

  “I had the sense reading the map,” Sophia said thoughtfully, “that the Dark Age wanted people. But Ausentinia wanted only itself—the land that had been Ausentinian.”

  “It is well observed, Sophia. I had not seen it this way, but you are right.”

  “We dread going into the Dark Age. At least I do,” Sophia said, rolling up the map. “But that is how we must go. And the golden birds will turn to black. I think that means the Golden Cross will not pursue us into the Dark Age, but the fourwings will be there instead. Errol and Rosemary, you are the falconer and the warbler.” She smiled. “You have already defended us once.”

 
“I think it is true that the Golden Cross will not pass into the Dark Age,” Rosemary agreed. “They guard the border, and they attempt to kill fourwings that escape it. But they never enter it. If we pass into the Dark Age, they will give us up for lost.”

  “So they will consider their job done,” Errol said. “Very well. Then our path takes us through the Dark Age and not around it.”

  “And let us hope,” Rosemary said, under her breath, “that the worst we encounter are Faieries with sharp teeth and a handsome woodsman.”

  37

  Reading the Rule

  —1892, June 30: 16-Hour 05—

  The United Indies have exported sugar, molasses, rum, and coffee since before the Disruption. New Occident and the Baldlands are its largest markets. To a lesser extent, New Occident has imported the Indies’ rice, nutmeg, and cacao. These goods were traditionally sent as raw commodities, but as the Indies grew in wealth and manufacturing sophistication, their exports were increasingly refined.

  —From Shadrack Elli’s History of New Occident

  THE MAP WRITTEN upon the ruler was less a map and more a cluster of memories, inchoate and unclear. Pressing his finger to the wavering red line, Theo felt himself plunged into a dark space heavy with the scent of fear. He was in a dungeon, or a room that felt like a dungeon. The walls were windowless and made of brick. He could not move. He looked down and saw that he was tied hand and foot to a metal chair. Across from him, in identical chairs, sat two others: a young woman and an old man. He could not see them clearly, as dark as it was, but he felt a throb of agonized distress. They were bound just as tightly, and they were slumped, immobile.

  The memory ended and another flashed before him, terrible and piercing. It began with a scream. The dungeon was now filled with flame lamps and the smell of burned wood. The girl in the chair thrashed against the ropes that held her. The legs of the chair were blackened. Her skirts were charred at the edges, and flakes of what had been fabric lay strewn around her like black snow. A fire, cunningly devised in a metal tray with a grate, burned near her bare green feet. It had not reached her—yet. A man with long scars at either side of his mouth stood by the tray, inching it toward her with his foot. She pulled back as much as her bonds would allow, trembling with terror. Theo felt that his heart would burst. He could not bear to see her so treated. As he watched, she strained desperately against the rope, and brilliant red blooms sprouted from her palms.

  Another memory abruptly intervened. The dungeon was quiet again. The metal tray with its terrible fire had been extinguished, and it lay at the edge of the room, the ashes gray and harmless. There was a broad metal table surrounded by scattered pieces of wood and tools: a hammer, a box of nails, a wooden rule, a saw, and a pencil. Two empty wooden crates, as long and wide as coffins, sat on the floor. The third was on the metal table. The Sandmen had placed the girl within it, and they surrounded her now with loose soil until only her face, white and calm with winter sleep, lay exposed. Theo locked eyes with the old man who sat across from him, tied to the metal chair. His expression said many things at once: I am sorry. I love you. I am afraid. You can do this.

  He pulled his finger from the map. “Here,” he said, passing the rule to Mrs. Clay. “I cannot tell you what it says. You must see it for yourself.”

  —17-Hour 00—

  THE CITY OF Boston stayed up late to learn the news of who would be the next prime minister of New Occident. The polls closed at fifteen-hour, but the results were not announced until seventeen-hour, after the votes were counted. As the city waited and the summer heat stayed high, people roamed the streets, speculating, arguing, and straining the limits of the Boston police force.

  MP Broadgirdle and the other two candidates were at the State House, each at the dinners hosted by their respective parties, also waiting. Though the Western Party was widely projected as the winner, the atmosphere of celebration at its dinner was rather forced. Broadgirdle sat at the head of the long dining table and ate energetically, dominating the conversation as the other MPs nervously did their best to impersonate a crowd of jubilant supporters. Peel hovered anxiously in a corner with the rest of the parliament assistants. The servers hurried in and out of the room, carrying trays of steaming fish, pots of fragrant soup, and plates piled high with roasted meat.

  Even though they knew they had lost, the mood at the Remember England dinner was more cheerful. Pliny Grimes had given a good speech, and two of the MPs from the Western Party had been brave enough to defect, joining Remember England. This swelled their ranks from five to seven, so the results would not change the shape of parliament, but it was generally felt to be a great success, and the MPs reminded each other—yet again—that they had, at least, the notable accomplishment of having preserved a parliamentary system in New Occident.

  At sixteen-hour, the Remember England Party decided to knock on the door of the New States Party dinner at the other end of the corridor, where Gamaliel Shore was attempting to keep spirits high. They were welcomed cordially, and the general anticipation of shared defeat allowed both parties to look upon each other kindly. Raising their warm glasses of sweet wine, they toasted their two parties and the unexpected but fortuitous alliance between them.

  Theo was at 34 East Ending Street with Mrs. Clay. Their mood was somber, and not only because of the horrifying memory map. It had offered proof, but Theo knew that proof might not be sufficient for a literal-minded, rule-following police inspector. He wanted a location, which the map did not give. He needed to attend the meeting with Broadgirdle and Peel at the State House to get it.

  And so Theo had been forced to confess his ongoing deception to Mrs. Clay. He had meant to persuade her, before heading off, that this meeting would yield the essential final piece of the puzzle.

  Instead, Mrs. Clay was persuaded that Theo had been taking an unforgivable risk. She was beside herself. “Oh, Theodore, what would Mr. Elli say?” she kept repeating. She insisted that they tell Inspector Roscoe Grey about Theo’s discoveries, so that Grey could investigate Broadgirdle himself. “Let him find these poor people,” Mrs. Clay urged. “That is what he does for a living. You are putting yourself in real danger.”

  Theo insisted that he needed more. He wanted to lead the inspector to the brick-walled room. He wanted the inspector to see every scrap of proof he needed. The memory map was not enough.

  Finally, having reached no compromise, Theo and Mrs. Clay had a melancholy dinner and waited for the election results. They sat at the kitchen table, each thinking about the people who were missing from East Ending Street and how the evening could have gone differently.

  All the clocks in the house struck seventeen-hour, and Mrs. Clay sighed. “They will be announcing it now, then,” she said.

  Theo pushed his plate aside. “I guess they will.”

  “Poor Mr. Elli. He worked so hard to overturn the border closure.” The housekeeper shook her head.

  They sat in silence. Finally, Theo stood up. “Well. I’m off to the meeting.”

  “Theodore, I beg you one last time. Please stay home. You’ve done enough already, surely. I cannot force you, but I plead with you to think of the danger. This man is capable of terrible things.”

  Theo stood, wondering what else he could say to persuade her. Then, in the silence, he heard a sudden pattering of feet on the street beyond the open window. They were decidedly small feet, and they were bare. Theo reached the side door just as the knocking began. He threw the door open to see Winnie, hands resting on his knees, gasping for breath, on the step. “What is it, Winnie?”

  Mrs. Clay joined Theo at the door. “Winston, are you hurt?”

  Winnie shook his head. “Broadsy won,” he gasped. “Announced early. Landslide.”

  Mrs. Clay sighed. “We were expecting as much. I fear for this Age, I truly do.”

  Winnie straightened up, still fighting for breath. “Embargo—the Ind
ies declared it.”

  “What?” Theo exclaimed. “Already?”

  “They were waiting in the harbor,” Winnie panted, “to declare it. And there’s a riot.” He took a breath. “At the storehouses. By the harbor. And the ships. Are overrun.”

  “Fates above,” Mrs. Clay gasped. “Over what? Broadgirdle’s election?”

  Winnie shook his head. “Molasses. Sugar. Rum. Coffee. Before it’s all gone.”

  Theo pulled his jacket off the back of the chair. “I’m going back with you.”

  “What on earth for?” Mrs. Clay exclaimed. “It will be chaos at the harbor.”

  “I can report it to Broadgirdle,” he said hurriedly. “It’s what Slade would do.”

  “Please don’t go, Theodore,” she implored. “Both of you should stay here.”

  “We won’t get too close.”

  Mrs. Clay worried the hair of her disordered bun. “Oh, take care of each other, boys! And may the Fates watch over you.”

  “Don’t worry,” Theo suggested, rather unhelpfully.

  “Got your mustache?” asked Winnie.

  “Got it. Right here.” He patted his pocket. “We have to leave by the library window.” He gave Mrs. Clay’s hand a reassuring squeeze, and they were gone.

  —17-Hour 31—

  THEY RAN SIDE by side on the cobbled street, Theo’s footsteps slow and loud compared to the swift slapping of Winnie’s bare soles. Though the streets of the South End were almost empty, the lights were on in many of the houses. People throughout the city were waiting—separately and in the safety of their houses, but nonetheless waiting—for the official announcement of the winner. Winnie reflected as they ran that, as usual, his tweakiness had been well-founded. He’d only caught a glimpse of the mayhem, but he had already seen one ship filled with rum burning in the harbor, the alcohol exploding and sending chunks of splintered wood like fallen leaves into the water.