Machine

by K. Z. Snow

  As Will turned a corner, a young man with unkempt ginger hair stumbled into the road directly in front of the OMT. Will skidded to a halt, barely managing to avoid crashing into a lamppost. Infuriated, he shot out of his still-running vehicle, prepared to give the inebriant (for surely this pedestrian was in a drunken stupor) a piece of his mind.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” he yelled, striding up to the young man. “Can’t you pay attention? I almost wrecked my transport because of you!”

  Will’s voice surprised him. He never sounded like that, rarely lost his temper at all. If he hadn’t been so on edge, he would’ve been more concerned about this boy—for he looked to be no older than sixteen—than a transportation machine.

  The young man’s heavy-lidded gaze faltered in Will’s direction. He said nothing, merely stood motionless in the middle of the road. His head drooped forward. His eyes, lackluster, looked empty.

  Empty, Will realized, because the blue had all but drained out of his irises, leaving them a pale tint away from being white.

  Will’s anger seeped away as he approached the boy and lightly grasped his shoulders. “Are you all right? Do you need help?” He didn’t smell of alcohol. Had he spent the night in some opium den in Purinton?

  Rumor had it there were quite a few such places—dim, smoky holes tucked into dismal little corners of City Center and the alleys that veined through Hell’s Gullet and the Needles district.

  Then again, one needn’t venture into Purinton to find oblivion. Druggists everywhere sold it in syrups and cordials and powders that bore fancy labels with product names.

  Insidious stuff, all of it. That was another reason Will no longer sold patent medicines.

  The boy’s vacant stare didn’t alter. Will gave him a gentle shake. “Have you been dipping into your parents’ tonics?”

  “I d-didn’t do nothin’,” he stuttered out, the words coming as thick and slow as tar. “D-don’t want to do nothin’.”

  Will studied him. “What’s your name?” He’d never seen a Taintwellian youth look so limp and sallow. Mongrels might be strange by human standards, but they were generally hardier, too—vigorous and clear-eyed and quick.

  The boy didn’t answer. Will wasn’t even certain he’d heard the question, much less comprehended it.

  “Ulney!”

  Will turned toward the female voice, pitched close to frantic. Mrs. Rumpiton hurried toward them, her thick arms outstretched as if something she needed to catch were falling from the sky.

  She huffed to a stop. Heedless of Will’s presence, she took the boy’s face in her hands. “Ulney, what’ve you been up to? You should be in school. Remember the talk we had yesterday? About you going back to school until you’ve secured an apprenticeship?” She began fussing with his clothes, which hung all askew on his short, plumpish frame. “You’re not dressed properly for this weather. And why are your braces so loose? Are those your father’s trousers? No wonder they’re dragging on the ground!” She snapped a glance at Will and asked in a lowered but still harried voice, “Did you see what he was up to?”

  “Uh… no, ma’am. But I doubt he was up to anything. He can barely walk. I almost ran into him because he wasn’t watching where he was going.”

  Mrs. Rumpiton’s hands kept up their nervous flutter, absently patting and pulling at Ulney’s shirt and braces. “Well… well… there was bound to be some disorientation at first. It’s an adjustment period, you see. I’ll just have to keep a closer eye on him while the bad drains out. But then, when goodness fills those spaces, he’ll be quite lovely. Quite, quite lovely, the best boy in the village.” She turned to her son and smoothed his hair. “Won’t you, dear? Won’t you be the finest boy in the village?”

  Ulney neither agreed nor disagreed. Befogged and nearly lifeless, he let himself be led away like the most docile patient in Cindermound Asylum.

  Utterly bewildered, Will watched the mother and son. From the moment Mrs. Rumpiton had called out Ulney’s name, Will had been trying to recall the details of his encounter with her the day before. Hadn’t she implied Ulney was intractable? Wasn’t that why she’d engaged the services of Zofen Perfidor?

  A cold wind blew through Will, tightening his skin and lifting the hair on his arms. Clamping a hand to his hat, he ran after Mrs. Rumpiton.

  “Excuse me,” he said, pulling up alongside her. “Has that man who calls himself the Spiritmaster performed his service for you yet?”

  The question seemed to distress the goodwife. She balked at answering. A haphazard flurry of tics and contractions beset her face. Will was about to apologize for poking his nose into Mrs. Rumpiton’s business when she said, “Yes. The Spiritorium was at our house in the dead of night. All that’s left is to await the results.” Keeping an arm around Ulney’s shoulders, she steered the shambling boy toward one of Taintwell’s twisting side streets beneath a lowering sky.

  AFTER VISITING seven businesses and speaking with their owners about temporary employment, Will headed home. The results of his search had been mixed. Two men suggested he look for a job in Purinton. “Ye’s a Pure,” one had pointed out, “an’ have more chances to work in more places than Mongrels have. Jobs in Taintwell should go to Taintwellians.” Will could not dispute his logic. Another man expressed mild surprise that Will was even looking for work, since he was “being kept by the Eminence.” Will could dispute that assumption, and he did so with cool hauteur: “It’s true Fanule Perfidor is allowing me to stay at his home, but I’m hardly being ‘kept’ by him.” Of the last three business owners, one was too suspicious of Pures to consider “having one of you under my roof.” Another wanted to know if Will had a strong back and was good with his hands. Although Will was devilishly tempted to answer that depends on what I’m doing, he admitted he did not excel at manual labor, either skilled or unskilled. Finally, the woman who ran her late father’s pond-ice company told Will to check back “closer to harvest season.”

  On all the streets Will traversed, there was no sign of the Spiritorium. Not so much as a glimmer. Not on the Green or in Starling Park or on any stretch of meadowland. Nor did anyone Will spoke with mention the return of Zofen Perfidor. Many residents were old enough to remember him, but perhaps he was making every effort not to be recognized. Even if he and Fan’s mother hadn’t been legally wed (as many Taintwellian couples weren’t), she was likely considered his wife. Walking out on one’s wife and baby was not a choice likely to generate respect among the townsfolk.

  As suppertime approached, Will left Taintwell feeling exhausted and dispirited. A cool mist had begun to fall, further dampening his spirits. Oh, how he hoped Fan felt better! They could bathe together and dine together, and sit before the parlor stove to talk about their days, and make sweet, slow love in that feather-plump bed before sleep refreshed them for tomorrow. That was how they usually spent their evenings. Already, the ache of missing such loving intimacies had settled inside Will. He yearned to have them back.

  Should he tell Fan about Ulney Rumpiton, about Mrs. Rumpiton’s hiring of Zofen and the nighttime appearance of the Spiritorium? He would have to decide that after gauging Fan’s mood. But he did need to talk to somebody about these strange goings-on. The subject was too unsettling to ignore.

  Will had no firsthand knowledge of Ulney’s behavior so couldn’t determine if or how the boy had changed. He was still becoming acquainted with the residents of Taintwell, most of whom he met in one of three ways: when they came to Fan’s house to discuss some matter with the Eminence of Taintwell, when Will accompanied Fan to village meetings, or when Will patronized local shops. It would take many more months for him to learn who was who.

  Cloudburst was in the barn when Will parked the OMT, which meant Fan was already home. He tried to ignore the apprehension that began to nibble at him. Straightening his cravat and coat, for Fan loved seeing him handsomely dressed, Will strode to the back door and let himself in.

  Immediately he knew Fan wasn’t better.
No cooking smells scented the air. No water filled the bathtub. Whichever of them arrived home first always began these chores. The house’s deadness signified another telling departure from routine.

  Will hung up his hat and called out, “I’m back from my job hunt. If you haven’t eaten yet, I’ll fix us something.”

  Fan soon appeared in the doorway to the parlor. “Don’t bother.”

  He sounded terrible and looked worse—his skin ashen, the lines in his face carved deeper, the intense clarity of his eyes dulled to mud. Yes, he’d fallen off the bridge. He’d fallen far.

  Will approached him and gently laid a hand on the side of his face. Fan hadn’t shaved, hadn’t bothered to brush the snarls out of his thick hair. “Go rest, my darling. I’ll bring you whatever you need.”

  What Fan needed, and desperately, was his special herbal tonic. All the patience and understanding Will had to give wouldn’t pull him from the abyss. Assurance that his father had left the province wouldn’t do it either. His illness had a firm grip on him now. Regardless of what had caused that fist to close and lock, only Fan’s medicine had the power to loosen it. Yet even that came with no guarantees.

  Will was terrified, but he knew he must not show it.

  Slowly, Fan’s arm rose. He lifted Will’s hand from his face. “William, I want you to leave. I… I’m having difficulty… holding myself together. You don’t need to be around me when I’m like this. I can’t even tolerate myself when I’m like this.”

  “You’re wrong. This is when I most need to be around you.” Will hurried over to the stove and grabbed the teapot. “Here, let me make a decoction of the powder. I’ll brew six cups, eight cups. That way I can simply heat it when you need it. I’ll even put in as much honey as you’d like. Or you can drink it cold, with sugar and some chips of ice.”

  Just as Will began filling the kettle at the sink pump, Fan snatched it out of his hand. “Stop coddling me. You’re only making matters worse. Can’t you see that?” He set the cast iron kettle in the sink with a weighty thunk, then braced his hands on the sink’s edge and hung his head. “Leave, William. I can’t bear having you here, hovering over me. I know it’s getting too cold for you to stay in your caravan, but I’ll gladly pay for your lodging at the White Inn or Elva Scrubb’s boardinghouse. I just want you gone. Frankly I”—he swallowed hard—“I think it was a mistake having you move in.”

  Will felt his face contract as if Fan had struck him. “You can’t mean that.” Fan isn’t in his right mind, he kept telling himself, but the reminder didn’t mitigate the sting of those words. He grasped Fan’s upper arms and made him turn. “Listen to me. I love you. It doesn’t matter if you’re not better yet. I want to help you get better. Let me stay and help you.”

  “No. There’s nothing you can do. And that tonic only does so much.” Fan wrenched free of Will’s grasp. “Please don’t look at me. Don’t touch me. And for gods’ sake, don’t make me hate you. Just go. You can come for your things while I’m at work. Take the OMT and use it as long as you need to. If it breaks down, have Bentcross fix it. I’ll make good on the debt.”

  Will’s throat tightened with every word. “Don’t make me hate you.” Was it possible such a thing could happen? That, simply by being there, he could suffocate Fan with his caring, or exacerbate Fan’s shame?

  “I don’t know what to do,” Will croaked out, aggrieved and furious and helpless. Uncle Penrose had always told him not to be a quitter unless it was for his own or the common good. But he couldn’t determine if this was one of those cases. He knew only that he couldn’t bear it if Fan hated him. Worse, if he, regardless of his good intentions, contributed to Fan’s turmoil.

  “Yes, you know what to do,” Fan said quietly. “You must go away. And stay away. I won’t send you off into this dismal night, but… I would like you to be gone in the morning. My mind can’t be changed, William.”

  Trying to keep himself from shaking, Will took three steps toward the parlor. Then something welled up in him, something like the white-hot liquid metal that poured from casting ladles in every Purinton foundry, and the force of it made him stop and spin toward Fan. “I know you have every right to toss me out like a beggar. This is your house. But I have every right not to stand for it.” He shot an arm forward and pointed at Fan. “I’ve given you the best I have to give, and I would’ve offered even more if I could, and now you’re slapping it away like a mosquito. If that’s how much you value my love, Fanule, perhaps I should stop squandering it on an ingrate like you.” Too distraught to think clearly, Will kicked at the stove. His face felt on fire, and his voice boiled toward a shout. “From now on, feel free to find strength and comfort in your bloody damned blasted self-pity or self-reliance or pride or vanity or whatever the hell it is. And leave me alone.”

  Ten minutes later, as Will lay shivering on the sofa beneath a blanket, he feared he might vomit. Every word spoken in the kitchen stabbed at him. Not for the thinnest shaving of a second had he ever thought he might say such things to Fan. Or Fan to him. Not since the deaths of his parents and uncle had he felt so utterly bereft.

  Chapter Six

  IF WILL slept at all, it couldn’t have been for more than an hour or two. He’d heard Fan leave for work, knew Fan had stood over him for a moment before heading into the barn and saddling Cloudburst. But Will hadn’t sat up or even cracked open his eyes. What would have been the point? Fan hadn’t touched him or whispered a single word, which meant nothing had changed since yesterday evening.

  A note on the kitchen table read, simply, Good-bye. I’m sorry.

  After forcing himself to eat and bathe, Will packed a valise with immediate necessities. He made sure to bring enough money to carry himself through the next couple of weeks, although he fervently hoped Fan would come to his senses much sooner and begin taking his tonic again. Will had already determined that he wouldn’t stay away completely. He couldn’t.

  The most terrifying outcome of this bout was that Fan, driven by despair, would try to harm himself. Will had to do something to guard against that. He’d skulk around Fan’s house and property every night if he had to, or beg the nocturnal Marrowbone to take turns with him. He’d even tell Mr. and Mrs. Pinshins to keep an eye on Fan while he worked.

  Anything. Will would do anything in his power to keep this affliction from claiming the man he loved. Wasn’t that what his own father had said about his beloved, Will’s mother, who’d suffered from a variation of the same disease?

  With a heavy heart, Will made his way to Mrs. Scrubb’s boardinghouse in the thin and dreary early-morning light. November, he’d always thought, was a mean miser indeed, as often as it withheld the optimistic glow and warmth of Old Sol. How he needed some sunshine today… and how Fan must have needed it!

  In part to distract himself, he kept his eyes peeled both for the Spiritorium and for Ulney Rumpiton, but he saw neither.

  All of Taintwell seemed lethargic. Fallen leaves, unswept, gathered in shop entrances. Few wagons trundled down the dirt streets. Neighbors didn’t call from yard to yard, and children shuffled rather than scampered toward the redbrick schoolhouse on Bellringer Lane. In spite of last night’s drizzle, the village smelled as dry and musty as an attic… and felt as void of vitality.

  Or maybe Will was seeing Taintwell through the smudged lens of his own mood.

  Why can’t I be a man about this? he thought peevishly, even while he worried about Fan, longed for Fan. Why can’t I adopt a more phlegmatic attitude? There’s nothing else I can do. As he turned onto Chitter Place, he caught of whiff of fresh bakery from the shop on the corner. For a bright, fleeting instant he felt the urge to stop there, to buy a few things for his and Fan’s supper and tomorrow’s breakfast. Then the boardinghouse came into view, jolting Will back to the reason for his outing. His love affair with Fan had shaped the track of his life and his thoughts more than he’d realized.

  Suddenly his eyes began to sting. He blinked, annoyed with himself. Weakness
wouldn’t do.

  Pull yourself together. Get settled into your room and then work out a plan.

  As Will parked his OMT in an empty lot beside the pink clapboard building, he wondered how many other boarders were housed there. He didn’t feel very sociable and recoiled from the thought of communal breakfasts and suppers. Anticipating his lonely nights was even worse.

  Perhaps, he thought, he should start keeping a journal. Recording what had happened thus far, as well as his thoughts and feelings, would fill his empty evenings while lightening the load on his spirit.

  A woman sat in a rocking chair on the long porch. Yissi Sweetgrass, Will thought—a pretty blonde slip of a thing who rather reminded him of a faerie. Was she employed by Mrs. Scrubb? She didn’t appear very energetic, in fact seemed sluggish and vacant.

  Smiling, he mounted the porch and, tipping his hat, nodded her way. “Good morning.”

  As close as Will was to her, Yissi didn’t acknowledge his greeting, didn’t so much as glance in his direction. Instead she seemed to be gazing at the porch rail, a detached wisp of a smile on her face. Will knew she wasn’t deaf and blind and so couldn’t account for her behavior. She’d never ignored him before.

  “You’re Miss Sweetgrass, aren’t you?” he said.

  Still no response.

  “Well, enjoy your day.” Without making any more attempts to secure her attention, Will entered the house. A bell tinkled, as if making up for Yissi’s rudeness by welcoming him. He stood for a moment in the entry and looked around.

  To his left, on the other side of the stairway, spread a large parlor with double doors, a sizable fireplace, bookshelves, and a clutter of furniture covered in runners, doilies, and other fancywork. It must have been for the lodgers’ use. On his right, Will spied a kind of sitting room with papered walls, the far end of which was blocked from sight by a line of folding screens. He didn’t see Mrs. Scrubb, but she soon emerged from a room at the end of the central hallway. The widow smiled as she wiped her wet hands on her apron.