The Golden Specific

by S. E. Grove

  As they neared the harbor, they began to hear the shouts. The streetlights illumined more and more people who were standing in clusters on the pavement, talking to each other.

  Then they turned a corner, and Winnie saw the first sign of trouble. He and Theo were running toward the harbor—but here were people running away. And they were not running casually, as he was. They were really running, as if fleeing for their lives.

  Theo pulled Winnie to a halt and pushed him to the side of the street, letting people rush by unimpeded. “What is it?” he called out to one of the men who passed. “What’s happened?”

  The man didn’t answer—he was already gone. Winnie stared at a crumpled shoe that someone had abandoned by the sidewalk. There was a scream from several blocks away. Shouts, more screams, and then a growing din of breaking glass and bursting wood roared toward them.

  Winnie and Theo exchanged glances. “Run!” someone shouted. “Run for your lives!”

  Theo stood rooted to the spot, his hand on Winnie’s shoulder. Then they both saw it: a dark wave, still a few blocks away, half as tall as the brick buildings on either side of the street. It snuffed out the streetlamps and surged toward them, crushing two men who stood before it. Without a word, Theo and Winnie turned and sprinted.

  Theo realized, after only a few paces, that Winnie would not be able to keep up. His short legs, however fast they moved, would not carry him far enough. As he ran, Theo looked over his shoulder and saw the wave moving toward them, carrying debris—broken roofs, carts, and shattered windows—which it hurled against the street and the brick walls and anything else that lay in its path. They would not be able to outrace it. He glanced down at Winnie, short arms pumping. At this rate, the wave and its deadly debris would swallow them whole.

  Squinting ahead into the still-illumined street, Theo saw a narrow alley between a bakery and a fish shop, some twenty paces ahead. “We’re turning there!” he shouted to Winnie over the churn of the wave and the screams of the people running ahead and beside them.

  Winnie gave no sign of having heard. His face was blank with fear. They reached the alley, and Theo pulled Winnie by the torn edge of his shirt. Stumbling over the trash that filled the narrow passage, they dove deeper between the buildings. “The fire ladder!” Theo shouted. “I’ll hold you up, then push the ladder down to me.”

  Theo could just make out the low balcony of a fire ladder ahead. The wave had reached the opening of the alley. It funneled in between the buildings, coursing over the trash as if it were mere dust. Theo lifted Winnie by the waist, almost throwing him at the balcony. For a moment the boy clung to the metal railing, dangling helplessly. Then he scrambled up and threw himself over, onto the rails. Below, the wave had almost reached them.

  Theo jumped for the balcony; it was too high. Winnie slammed on the metal ladder with his bare foot, sending it clattering down sharply. Theo jumped again, seizing the ladder, and from there propelled himself up beside Winnie. The wave was already engulfing the base of the ladder, pooling rapidly and rising. “Climb!” Theo cried. “It’s going to keep rising—look how high it is on the street.”

  And, in fact, on the main street beyond the alley, the black glue showed no sign of slackening. Winnie and Theo climbed the metal steps until they reached the roof. Then they stopped, out of breath, and peered down. The wave had engulfed the second-story windows, but it had reached its limit there and could climb no farther. Gasping, Theo walked toward the front of the building to look out onto the street.

  All the gas lamps in sight had been extinguished. In the dim light of the moon, he could see the flotsam slowly sinking. Winnie joined him, then lay face up on the roof. His ribs rose and fell. “Whew,” he said. He realized now that the tweaky had not been about the election; it had been about this.

  Theo took a deep breath and shook his head in disbelief. “It’s molasses! Can you smell it?”

  “You bet I can smell it,” Winnie replied. “Must have been the tank on the Long Wharf.”

  “You think it burst?”

  “They might have tried to make a spigot in it.”

  Theo threw himself down on the rooftop beside Winnie. “Fitting start for Broadgirdle. A flood of molasses is just about exactly right.”

  38

  Losing the Mustache

  —1892, June 30: 18-Hour 11—

  Believe in the world we have lost, not in the world you see, for the present world is mere illusion: a misshapen distortion of the truth. Beyond it, in the evanescence of memory, lies the Age of Verity.

  —From the prophet Amitto’s Chronicles of the Great Disruption

  WHEN THEY HAD rested enough, Winnie and Theo moved on. They discovered a long piece of wood on the far side of the rooftop and used it as a bridge to cross over to the next building. They took the wood with them, bridging the narrow alleyways, until they had reached the end of the block. There, peering over the edge, they saw dry pavement and a great crowd of people moving west as the molasses that was trapped between the buildings seeped outward through the city streets.

  The pair scurried down the fire escape and skirted the crowd, running along the edge of the cemetery and toward the State House. The crowds began again on Boston Common: agitated knots of people, some of them weeping and consoling, some of them shouting and pointing. There was no telling how many more had been swallowed by the wave of molasses, and it would be many days before the streets were cleaned and the full damage could be understood.

  Winnie and Theo found the State House steps full, but above them the building was quiet and the colonnade dark. “Hey,” Theo said to a young man standing by himself, “did we miss the speeches?”

  The young man nodded. “Shore and Grimes gave concession speeches. Broadgirdle came out to celebrate his victory.”

  “Did he say anything about the riot?”

  He shook his head. “Nothing. Just more babble about heading west.”

  Most of the people on the steps were men, and from the look of them, most supported Broadgirdle. There was a good deal of contented chuckling and backslapping. Theo realized that it was only a matter of time before the furious, grieving people who had escaped the molasses flood came to the State House and confronted the smug, victorious supporters of the Western Party. The result would almost certainly be violent.

  Winnie, watching Theo’s face anxiously, understood what he was thinking. “More rum and fire, isn’t it? Rum here, fire there. Won’t be pretty when the fire spreads.”

  “You’re very right, Winnie,” Theo said, resting a hand on the boy’s shoulder.

  “I’ve got a tweaky sense about these things,” Winnie said, more mournfully than proudly. He felt that things had gotten tweaky enough, and he was wondering why such excitement could not space itself out a bit, enlivening days that were otherwise boring, rather than occurring all at once and thereby making it difficult to appreciate.

  Theo would have asked what he meant by “tweaky,” and in fact was about to, but a quick consultation of his watch told him that he was already late. “Winnie,” Theo said, shaking his shoulder, “I’ve got to go meet Broadgirdle and Peel. You shouldn’t wait out here, though. This is bound to get ugly. Do me a favor: go back and tell Mrs. Clay that we’re all right, would you?” Theo knew that Winnie would never stay overnight at East Ending Street if the invitation seemed an act of kindness. But if he told him to go on an errand, and Mrs. Clay insisted that he stay, then perhaps he would.

  Winnie hesitated. “Sure,” he said. “Go on now, you’re late.”

  With a brief nod, Theo walked quickly up the steps toward the State House entrance. He did not see Winnie run across the street to where the other scruffy boys were clustered, talking eagerly about all that had happened since midnight. Winnie said something to one of them and pressed a penny into his hand. The boy dashed off across the Common, toward the South End. Winnie hurried back up
the State House steps and wedged himself into a tight little corner at the far side of the covered colonnade. From there, he could easily see the main door and the steps while not being seen himself. Winnie crouched down, hugged his knees to his chest, and waited.

  • • •

  AS THEO WALKED along the now empty corridors, he reached into his pocket for his mustache. It was a little the worse for wear, as was his suit. He pressed it onto his upper lip and hoped for the best.

  Approaching the offices of MP—now Prime Minister—Broadgirdle, Theo saw that the front room was empty. He could hear Broadgirdle and Peel speaking in Broadgirdle’s office. Taking a deep breath, he walked toward it. This is it, he thought, nervous but exhilarated.

  “Hello?” he called, announcing himself.

  “In here, Mr. Slade,” Broadgirdle called. “Please join us.”

  Theo gave Broadgirdle a wide grin. “Congratulations,” he said warmly. He realized, as he was about to extend his hand, that he had forgotten his gloves. With an awkward movement, he tucked his hands into his pockets.

  Broadgirdle returned Theo’s grin in a manner that seemed more menacing than celebratory. “What’s wrong, Mr. Slade? Forgot your gloves?”

  Theo realized then, too late, that he had been played. He had the impulse to turn and flee, his mind flashing through his escape route in an instant, but Peel had already moved behind him to close the door. He looked back at Broadgirdle, wanting to find the right words that would make everything return to how it had been moments earlier, when he was standing in the corridor. But he could think of nothing.

  The man Theo knew as Wilkie Graves let out a roar of laughter. “If only you could see your face, Lucky Theo. It is truly priceless. All of the inconvenience has been worth it for that face—so surprised, so utterly deflated.” He grinned even more broadly, rising from behind the desk. “Did you truly think I wouldn’t recognize you? You’ve grown a bit, but you’re still the same boy: a thief, a liar, and a coward,” he said, suddenly reaching out and seizing Theo’s arm, “with a hand that looks like it’s seen the wrong end of a meat grinder.” Theo tried to pull away and failed. Graves, still much stronger and still almost twice his size, had a viselike grip. “I believe this one is my doing, isn’t it?” he asked thoughtfully, pointing to the knuckle of Theo’s ring finger. “And this one?”

  “Let me go,” Theo finally said, his voice choked.

  “Oh, not a chance, Lucky Theo. Not. A. Chance. For a while it was worth seeing what you were up to, because of your connection to Shadrack Elli. But your speculation on the Eerie has shown that you know nothing. So, lamentably, your little deceptions are not interesting any longer.”

  “I’ll leave the office,” Theo agreed.

  “Oh, you will, but not just yet,” Graves said. He leaned forward and with a quick yank pulled off the mustache. He gave a low laugh. “Really, Lucky Theo. You haven’t changed a bit. Still too confident in yourself. Too confident in the good luck that you never really had.” His grip tightened painfully and he leaned in close.

  Theo felt a wave of disgust as he smelled the familiar scent—smoke and decay, complicated now by a perfumed hair cream. With Graves’s face inches from his own, Theo saw that his eyes were slightly bloodshot. His eyebrows were trimmed and plucked into dark bars. And at the edges of his mouth, where the black beard covered so much of his face, Theo saw, to his shock, the thin and hairless stripes made by scars.

  He gasped. “You—” he began. “You have the scars. You’re a Sandman.”

  Broadgirdle’s brow contracted; his air of jollity vanished. “What do you know about Sandmen?” he asked, biting the words.

  “I know, I know what you are,” Theo stammered. “I was there when Blanca died. Is that what this is all about? Her crazy plan?”

  Graves gave a nasty smile, his composure partially restored. “Actually the plan at the moment is all my own.” He eyed Theo coldly, without humor. “As usual, you seem to have all the right instincts and all the wrong facts. My fellows and I survived that woman’s persecutions, and we have a far greater purpose now than we did then.” He dug his fingers into Theo’s arm.

  “The closet,” Graves called to Peel.

  Theo tried to kick his way free, but the two men, despite their different sizes, were easily able to contain him. For a moment, while Peel opened the closet door, Theo was able to squirm out of Graves’s grasp. But they were both upon him again instantly, and as they pushed him into the closet, Peel took the opportunity to plant a swift kick with his rather pointy shoe in Theo’s stomach. Groaning, he fell back against the closet wall. The door closed, leaving him in total darkness apart from the sliver of light that seeped in at the bottom. The lock clicked. “Lucky Theo,” Graves said, his voice once again light, as if he could barely contain his laughter. “Just imagine you’re back in the wagon. That should make the time pass quickly.” He let out a low chuckle.

  Then the light in the office was extinguished, and Theo heard the outer door slam shut.

  He reached up and tried the closet door, even though he knew it was locked. He peered through the keyhole. In the faint, silver light that came in through the windows, he could see pieces of the empty office. The writing instruments on the politician’s desk gleamed coldly.

  Theo sat back and tried to fight the panic welling up inside him. He was sweating, his palms so slick that he could not grip the doorknob. Eyes closed, desperately trying to imagine an escape route, he threw himself against the wall. He’s right, he thought, the terror pulsing through him like poison. Graves is right. I’m the same as I was then. I’m just as helpless. I’m just as scared. I will never be any less afraid of him.

  The idea had been planted there, and there was no way to avoid remembering the wagon, just as Graves wanted him to.

  • • •

  ON THAT FIRST day, Graves had set his dog upon him and only pulled the beast back after it had chewed up Theo’s hand and forearm. Then, while he groaned in pain, Graves unlocked the wagon. “Get up,” he said.

  Theo tried to gather himself to run, but the pain was too great, and he couldn’t stop cradling his arm. Graves grabbed him by the back of the shirt and hauled him up. “You wanted to get into the wagon,” he said with false affability, “and now I’m giving you what you wanted. Get in.” He pushed Theo roughly, so that his shins hit the floor. Instinct took over when Graves pushed again, and he jumped up.

  He had seen what was in the wagon and he could not believe his eyes. In the brief seconds of light before Graves slammed the door, he gazed at them: four men and one woman, their hands shackled, the shackles attached to chains bolted into the floor. The wagon did, indeed, hold precious cargo, but not of the kind he had imagined. Graves, he realized, was a slaver.

  The trip in the wagon was interminable. The people did not speak to him, except for the man next to him who patted him awkwardly on the shoulder when Theo began crying. “Don’t worry, my boy. You’re much too scrawny. And now your hand is near useless. No one will want to buy you.” It did not offer much comfort. But the man was right. Graves had been heading to a slave auction several hours west, and every person in the wagon sold within the day—except for Theo.

  Graves did not seem bothered. “Well, you were free to begin with,” he said with equanimity. “I guess you can work for me now.” He grinned, his metal teeth gleaming.

  39

  A Dark Age

  —1892, July 2: 13-Hour 30—

  The circumstances of the first forays into the Dark Age have been lost to time, but soon after the Disruption its nature became known. Any prospect of settlement was quickly abandoned. A Papal expedition of 1433 returned, having lost all but two of its members, and declared that the Age would be prohibited to all inhabitants of the States.

  —From Fulgencio Esparragosa’s

  Complete and Authoritative History of the Papal States

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nbsp; AS THEY RODE the final mile toward the border, Sophia contemplated the changes that had taken place in her since reading Cabeza de Cabra’s map. When she thought back on the way she had been in years past, or the last summer, or even the day before, it seemed as though she was contemplating a different person. In all her elaborate fantasies of finding her parents, she had always imagined herself the grateful recipient of some wonderful turn of events. That was gone. In fact, the person capable of feeling that was gone. Her parents would not arrive as a wondrous wish fulfilled by the kindly Fates. Instead, seeking them would be long and arduous. She might not find them. They might truly have vanished as so many others had vanished in the abyss of memories. And should she find the Lachrima that had been her parents, discovering at last those empty faces would be more painful than anything she had ever lived through.

  These thoughts did not make her feel helpless, or defeated; on the contrary—they made her feel steady, with a clearer sense of direction. But the realization did make her feel old. She had left the younger Sophia behind in Seville: an innocent girl who believed in the Fates; another phantom to haunt the city’s empty streets at dusk.

  Was this always part of growing older? Sophia wondered. Perhaps it was: realizing the world was not obliged to give you what you wanted, and, more importantly, deciding what you would do and how you would feel once the realization arrived. Would you sit back and resent the world? Would you make peace with it, and accept the unfairness without rancor? Or would you try to find and take what the world had not provided? Maybe all three, she reflected, at different moments.

  She touched the spool in her pocket and ran her thumb along the coiled silver thread. It was strange to think that this token that had meant so much to her, that had seemed to carry the power of the Fates, now seemed lifeless and inert. It was simply a spool of thread. The greatest force it carried was the memories—dear memories—of the last year of her life. There was no other power there.