by S. E. Grove
—11-Hour 04—
INSPECTOR GREY, GLANCING around him, understood at once that he was outmanned. He had only eight officers, and half of them looked terrified. Grey turned back to the scarred face before him and wondered if it would be better to lie about Broadgirdle’s whereabouts. On principle, Grey never lied, but in this instance, he reasoned, such a course might be the only way to prevent his officers from being killed.
“The prime minister is not in the State House,” Grey said firmly.
The man before him slowly took the grappling hook from his belt and held it with a casual air. The others around him followed suit. “You can tell us where he is, then.”
“I don’t know where he is. The prime minister fled the State House as we were taking him to chambers.”
The man with the grappling hook frowned, and suddenly the hook was whirling in the air like a lasso. “You are lying,” he said.
The officers drew their pistols. The nineteen men before them began whirling their grappling hooks. Grey, his hands at his sides, sought desperately in his mind for a way to avoid the confrontation. He could think of nothing. As the man before him drew the circling hook over his head, preparing to launch it, a sudden whoop sounded, piercing and clear, from the colonnade behind him. A chorus of shrill, exuberant cries echoed the first, and Grey watched in amazement as a fist-sized rock flew past him, hitting the man with the grappling hook soundly on the ear.
He fell back, stunned, and a volley of smaller stones followed, pounding down on the twenty men like a hailstorm. Grey turned his head in astonishment and looked up at the gallery of the State House.
The inspector was of strong constitution, but he nearly fainted when he saw his own daughter, grinning from the gallery. She gave him a cheerful wave before launching another missile. Grey stared at her, aghast. Beside her were some twenty-five or thirty street urchins, all of them enthusiastically pitching rocks at the men on the steps. The stones were small, but many hit their mark, and as they continued without pause, they made it impossible for the men to throw their grappling hooks.
The anxious parent in Grey wanted to run up to the colonnade and drag Nettie home. The inspector in Grey reasoned that he and his men were getting the very help they needed. He agonized for several seconds, watching as several of their attackers fled the steps and two others huddled down, covering their heads with their hands. There would be no other chance, Grey realized. The inspector prevailed over the parent.
“Cuff them,” he shouted to his men. “I want to see them all in the station within the hour.”
39
Red Garnets
—August 20, 7-Hour 41—
In contrast, the story from Oakring about the origins of weirwinds describes a man who lost everything—his home, his family, his livelihood—in a storm. Others with similar losses sat bereaved, broken and hopeless, until they hardened and turned to stone. But this man grew with his anger, until his great, desperate sobs became gales and his tears became storms. It is striking to imagine the weirwind this way—animated loss, taking back from the world what can never really be recovered.
—From Sophia Tims’s Born of the Disruption: Tales Told by Travelers
SOPHIA HAD RUN only a few feet when she heard a snort behind her. She turned, and Nosh was there, barring her way. “Thank you, Nosh,” she said gratefully as he sank down so she could mount. He grunted in reply as he rose, clearly offended that she had tried to run off without him. “You’re right,” Sophia conceded, patting his neck. “It was not the best part of my plan. Your legs are much stronger than mine.”
Nosh galloped uphill through the muddy grass, toward the center line of the New Occident forces. As they neared the troops, Sophia saw a cluster of three riders who waited before the rest. She swallowed her nervousness. Nosh slowed his pace and stopped ten feet away. The riders did not approach her. They did not move at all.
Two of the men wore goggled masks. The third, who wore a hat and carried his mask in the crook of his arm, was clearly General Griggs. Although his uniform sagged with the weight of the rain, he held himself erectly in the saddle, and his eyes considered Sophia with dispassion. The eyes were hard without being cold. Griggs seemed, in his upright posture and stern bearing, a man more guided by principle and obligation than by bloodlust, cruelty, or ambition. It was evident, from the white knuckles and slow breaths, that he was weary.
“The Eerie girl is caged for a reason,” Griggs said.
“And she is about to drown,” Sophia said. “I am here to speak for Fen Carver and the troops of the Indian Territories,” she declared in a clear voice.
Griggs did not respond. He leaned toward the soldier to his right and asked a question. The man removed his mask, revealing a round face with a red beard. Then he drew a telescope from the inside of his jacket pocket, wiped it with a handkerchief, and held it up to his eye. After a moment, he pocketed the telescope and said something to his commander.
Griggs sat back. “Go down, then, and pull it back twenty-five feet.”
The bearded soldier assented and waved to the soldiers behind him. Seven of them followed, plodding downhill at a measured pace. Sophia felt relief like a breath of dry air. Datura would be safe for a little while longer. On to the next step, she told herself.
“Now,” Griggs said to Sophia. “Explain. I’ve already agreed to terms with Carver. You’ve violated those terms by meddling with the girl. Does Carver want me to ignore my side of the agreement as well?” Rivulets of water dripped over his white eyebrows as if over an awning. His mustache was a sodden broom.
“Yes,” Sophia said. “He was waiting for us to arrive with this.” She held up the mirrorscope. “And we arrived too late for your initial negotiations.”
Griggs took in the mirrorscope, and the white mustache twitched with his wry smile. “What is this? Some magical Indian weapon?”
“No,” Sophia replied. “No magic. It is a telescope. Carver is certain that if you look at his troops with this telescope, you will want to change the terms of battle.” She was relieved that her voice did not sound pleading. It sounded surprisingly confident. In fact, she realized, she felt confident.
General Griggs pondered her in silence. Then he urged his horse forward and held his hand out—not with curiosity, but with the unhurried air of a man who would conclude his business regardless of the trivial obstacles placed in his path. Taking the mirrorscope, he nudged his horse back a few paces. He examined the instrument briefly, turning it in his hand.
For a moment Sophia thought he would decline to look through it. But then he held it up to his right eye. He rotated it slightly. Sophia held her breath. The rain fell against his hat in a constant patter. Behind him, the troops stood still and anonymous, faceless in their dark hoods. The weirwind howled; the storm crashed around them like waves. Sophia had the momentary impression that she and Griggs were floating in a tiny vessel, large enough for only the two of them, while an ocean raged around them.
There was no change in Griggs’s expression, and he remained perfectly still—one arm around the goggled mask, the other raised with the mirrorscope, sitting astride his horse in the rain. But the effect of the mirrorscope was nonetheless evident—upon his horse. Sensing the invisible change in its rider, the animal raised its head in sudden terror, eyes wide, every muscle suddenly rigid. There was a long pause, in which Sophia imagined the horse bolting, throwing Griggs and the mirrorscope into the mud.
Then Nosh stepped forward and nudged the horse’s neck. It startled, shuddered, and turned to consider the moose. Nosh held its gaze for several long seconds, until Griggs finally took the mirrorscope from his eye. Sophia watched his expressionless face for some sign of what he would do.
“How does this work?” Griggs finally asked.
Sophia looked at him, unsure of how to answer. “It is an Eerie device.”
“But how does
it work?” Griggs insisted, lifting his hat so that his blue eyes were looking steadily into hers. When Sophia did not answer, he put his mask down on the horn of his saddle and clasped the mirrorscope with both hands. He held it reverently, as if considering a sacred object. “I saw my father here,” he said. “And my brother. I saw things I thought no one else in the world had seen but me. How is that possible? How does it work?” He had not raised his voice, but the words had quickened, and as he finished his question he raised the mirrorscope before him.
“I don’t know,” Sophia admitted. “I don’t understand how it works. But if you saw things you remember, surely you must realize that the memories in the scope are true.”
“Someone else has seen what I have seen,” Griggs said, looking past Sophia, into the middle distance. His words were slow and considered, as if he was attempting to pinpoint the nature of his question. “Not just seen, but also felt. For I remember feeling nothing when I realized the horses had drowned, and the eye that remembers this”—he gestured to the mirrorscope—“felt grief. When I did not. It was many years before I felt grief.” He stopped abruptly and lifted the mirrorscope to his eye once more.
This time he truly studied the garnet map of New Occident. Sophia watched him, astonished, as the minutes passed. She found it hard to believe that he could stomach such horror for so long. As he lowered the mirrorscope a second time, she saw that it had indeed taken its toll. His hand trembled slightly. He turned to look back at the slope where his troops were assembled. “As if I needed reminding,” he said, his voice unsteady. His shoulders sagged. “Which one of us is not weary of war?” he asked. He seemed to be speaking to himself rather than to Sophia or to his troops, who were out of earshot. “Which one of us does not wish to go home? To a home untouched by all that we have seen. A home now vanished, from days when our eyes were young. It is impossible to return to that place—that childhood, when the world was not a landscape of blood. A red place. And for some, even that childhood is no escape. All they remember, all they ever remember, is pain. There are children who fall like the rest of us. Who see what we do. Who fight.” He clenched the mirrorscope in his hand.
Sophia watched Griggs’s grave face in suspense. She had seen many things in the mirrorscope, in the brief glimpse into New Occident’s memories, and she could not be certain that he had seen any of the same. But she understood his words. The sound that had stayed with her from her glimpse into the mirrorscope was the wail of a child—high and terrified and unabated—a sound that even now rang in her ears. It was like nothing she had ever heard, yet it reminded her of another wailing: the Lachrima’s long ebb and flow of grief, the cry that had echoed in her mind from the moment she learned that her parents had transformed.
Griggs straightened in his saddle and took a deep breath. He interrupted the silence. “It is compelling, what you have shown me,” he said, “but it cannot change my purpose in being here. I have no choice. I answer to the prime minister of New Occident. Carver knows this is no personal venture of mine.”
“But you said—”
“I know what I said. But look around you.” He gave a broad gesture that took in the entire valley. “This was not brought about by my hand. I did not wish this or make this. I cannot stop it, either.”
“You can stop it!” Sophia insisted.
“Child, you will soon learn the most humbling lesson to be learned here, on this battlefield. We like to think that a single person can change the world. But there are times when one person counts for very little. There are times when he or she counts for nothing at all.” Griggs held the mirrorscope out to her, his face hard.
It failed, Sophia realized, aghast. He is going to attack despite what he has seen. As Sophia struggled for words, taking the mirrorscope in her hand, the men Griggs had sent downhill returned.
The soldiers melted back into their places, and the officer with the red beard stopped before Griggs. “She is in position,” he said. “Carver has come back to this side of the river.”
Griggs shook his head very slightly. He lifted his horse’s reins and said to Sophia, “Tell Carver I will honor the original terms. You and he have ten minutes to get across the river. Tell him I cannot disobey my orders.”
“But what about the weirwind?” Sophia asked. “Look at it!” She gestured at the crest of the hill, where the wall of wind remained poised. “It will descend at any moment. The weirwind will destroy this valley and anyone in it.”
“Eventually it will pass,” Griggs said. “The weather is no obstacle to me.”
Sophia did not know what to do. She had been so sure that the mirrorscope would change the general’s mind, and though it had clearly shaken him, it had not altered his course. All it had done was delay him.
Wait, something said in Sophia’s mind. It was not her own inner voice, but the other voice—that familiar instinct that she was beginning to recognize as the old one, as the Clime: as New Occident. Wait, it said again.
“Wait!” Sophia cried aloud.
Griggs paused, and she stared at him desperately, waiting herself for the old one to explain itself so she would know what to do next.
And then she saw them. Battling the rain, dipping and wavering and faltering, a flock of pigeons was flying through the storm. Above the pigeons flew larger birds—falcons and ravens—whose broader wings served as a canopy, protecting them from the worst of the rain. “Look!” she cried. “Iron pigeons!”
Griggs and his officers looked up. The mass of birds descended, arriving in a burst of cawing and screeching that seemed to explode around them. The falcons wheeled dizzily, circling and swooping before driving upward once more, while the ravens landed on the ground around them. The iron pigeons fluttered to a stop on Nosh’s antlers—more than a dozen of them, cooing and shaking their feathers.
“Marcel!” Sophia exclaimed, recognizing at once the pigeon who had flown from Maxine’s house in New Orleans with her message to Shadrack.
With trembling fingers, wet and clumsy, Sophia opened the compartment on Marcel’s leg. She read the words on the tiny slip of paper, protecting it with her hand. Then she read the next pigeon’s message, and the next. All of the pigeons carried papers with the same words.
Then, her hand shaking, she reached out to General Griggs and handed him the papers. He read a few in silence, his drooping mustache twitching once. With a short exhalation, he tucked the papers inside his jacket, protecting them from the rain. “Is Carver still below?” he asked his officer.
The man with the red beard consulted his telescope. “He is.”
“Hold the troops here. I will return in a moment. Come along,” he said to Sophia.
Griggs led his horse downhill, with Nosh and Sophia behind him. They came quickly upon Datura’s cage, where Bittersweet clung resolutely to the bars. Theo and Casanova stood beside him, their faces expectant. Beside them, a hatless Fen Carver stood in a dripping buckskin coat, a worn rifle slung across his shoulder. A handkerchief covered the lower half of his face, and he reached to pull it downward as Griggs and Sophia approached. He was frowning, but under his furrowed brow, his eyes held something light and fragile, like hope. “Well?” he asked, after Griggs had reined his horse and dismounted.
Griggs removed his hat. He reached into his coat and handed the slip of paper to Fen Carver. “Prime Minister Gordon Broadgirdle has been removed from office,” he announced. “By emergency vote, parliament has ended aggressions with the Indian Territories and New Akan.” He paused. “My orders from the Minister of Relations with Foreign Ages are to return to Boston.”
There was a pause, and then an explosive cheer from Theo, echoed by Casanova. Carver, who had read the messages with a grave face, handed them back to Griggs and gave a slight bow. Then he took the white scarf from his neck and tied it around the muzzle of his rifle. Lifting it over his head, he waved the rifle, and a slow eruption of shouts, muffled by
the storm, sounded from across the valley.
Griggs walked to Datura’s cage. Taking a key from his pocket, he unlocked the door. “It would be an insult to offer you my hand,” he said, “after what you have seen and I have done. You would be right not to take it.”
She stood, dazed and disbelieving. “I can go?”
“You are entirely free.” Griggs stepped back from the cage. “I had my orders,” he said to her, “but there was no dignity fighting in your wake.” He gave her a brief nod and turned to ride uphill, where the troops of New Occident waited.
Still, Datura did not move until Bittersweet ran up and pulled her from the cage. She stepped down with trembling legs, and her brother embraced her. “It’s over, little sister,” he said, holding her close. “It’s over.”
40
Red Woods
—1892, August 20: 7-Hour 02—
But what has yet to be thoroughly understood is how some places can so effectively make time pass in different ways. What is it about a place that changes the texture of time within it? I would like to see a considered study of how time passes in different places, similar to the one conducted in Boston last year. (For those who have not read the work, it was found that a majority of Bostonians experienced a slowing down in time between ten-hour and ten-seventeen.) Is this about some property of the Age, or is it some manner of living that has created synchronous experience? We do not yet know.
—From Sophia Tims’s Reflections on a Journey to the Eerie Sea
THE RAIN STOPPED abruptly, and the valley was suddenly quiet. The only sound was the river, which churned on, sending its swollen waters south. Fen Carver stood on the flooded banks, watching the currents with a pensive air. His troops waited for him, the groups of warriors from every corner of the Territories coming into focus as the clouds retreated.