Hedley King, Bran’s natural father, poured another glass of dark red wine for himself. Bran declined a refill, the two cups he had already quaffed leaving him muzzy-headed. How strange to be sitting here with this intimately connected stranger in a fusty candlelit parlor, full of ancient bric-a-brac, dispassionately discussing their separate lives as if they had met by chance on a train. Although Hedley King was not the ideal father Bran might have chosen for himself, Bran had quickly discerned that the man possessed a certain intensity of purpose and engaging sharpness of intellect that offset his less delicate behaviors.
Bran had already disburdened himself of the broad outlines of his youthful career, right down to his arrival on the step of Mount Golden (so christened by its prior owner, an eccentric named Trafton Shroud who believed without a shred of evidence in the existence of rich veins of ore upon his property). Hedley King seemed pleased that Bran had been motivated to search him out, although of course whenever mention of Warner Gilead intervened in the boy’s narrative, the older man grew resentful and irate, still plainly nursing his old grudges against the plutocrat.
And now, having plumbed Bran’s depths and found him a receptive and sympathetic auditor, King, slightly tipsy and prone to rubbing a scarred hand across the hard-traveled landscape of his face, as if to erase or reassemble its topography, rambled on about his own past.
“When that guardian of yours sent me packing, right after your birth, it was with the understanding that I’d not find any future employment at my chosen trade within the sphere of his considerable mercantile influence. So I was forced to move about the country, earning my keep as best I could. All I had with me as my treasure and hope were my patents on the Morphic Resonator, which existed only as a collection of scattered pieces, incomplete at that. The vril reservoirs were the bulkiest, but I couldn’t abandon them—they had been crafted at great expense, and with the essential help of one of your guardian’s associates. Lord, what a damnable inconvenience they were! But I held on to them, knowing that someday I’d have a chance to fill them, thus taking the first step to perfecting my device.”
“But this Morphic Resonator—what is it exactly?”
“Ah, you’ll see soon enough, first thing in the morning.” King downed another gulletful of wine. “Now, where was I? Oh, yes. Some years ago I ended up in Europe, in the Carpathian Mountains, to be precise, nor far from castle Gortz and hot on the track of the vril. And that’s where I met Jellyneck.”
Jellyneck, Bran now knew, was the foul-tempered dwarf who had greeted him at the door, under the impression that Bran was a bill collector sent from one of the unpaid merchants in Windsor. Pavel Jelinek was the small man’s real name, but upon being introduced Bran had heard “jellyneck” and could now not think of him otherwise. As to the nature of vril, Bran had formed some conception of it as an energy-dispensing substance akin to pitchblende. And in fact, the Carpathian Mountains were a known source of that familiar element, so it made sense they would host the mysterious vril, too.
King continued: “Jellyneck was a miner, and was instrumental in leading me to the subterranean veins of vril, where I was able to charge my essential reservoirs. Enlisting in my cause, Jellyneck returned with me to America. We settled down here, knowing I could count on the armory for work. Quickly, I brought the completed Morphic Resonator to its first success. But it’s a limited success, I fear. And lack of funds stops me from carrying my experiments further, confound it!”
Bran finally surrendered to an immense uncontrollable yawn. Taking the cue, King said, “I can see you’re weary. Let’s get our rest, and the morning will disclose miracles to you!”
King summoned his dwarf comrade. Was the man servant, partner, or both? Or something even less describable?
“Jellyneck, take Ro—I mean, Bran—up to the guest bedroom. This has been a monumental day for us all. Good night—son.”
With that charged word ringing in his ears, Bran climbed to the upper story of Mount Golden, where he found a bedchamber rich with dust dragons and cobwebs, featuring a spavined mattress and a moth-eaten coverlet just sufficient for the northern June clime. Doffing his travel-grimed clothes for a cotton robe from his carryall, Bran found himself soon soundly asleep, despite all the flighty speculations and retrodden memories buzzing in his head.
He awoke refreshed, to the smell of frying bacon, onions, and potatoes and boiling coffee, most agreeable scents. Dressed and downstairs, he found Jellyneck at the stove, his crabbed motions belying an efficient handling of skillet and tools. The dwarf wordlessly served Bran a simple yet hearty breakfast, then left the room.
His hair a haystack, Hedley King entered the kitchen with a dyspeptic, neuralgic mien, nodding grumpily in Bran’s general direction. He poured himself some coffee, lashed it with copious cream and sugar, and downed it faster than was commensurate with the beverage’s heat. But the draught did him good, and he perked up considerably.
“Finish up, and we’ll go see the Resonator.”
Eager to penetrate to the heart of this enigmatic engine that had driven King’s every action for twenty years, Bran complied.
King called for Jellyneck to accompany them, and the trio went out to a time-distressed, leaning barn. Using a big key, King undid the padlock on the barn’s door and they entered. Once kindled, a kerosene lamp revealed the usual agrarian furniture of such a place—save for a unique construction of brass and iron and crystal.
Occupying about as much space as a large restaurant pie case, the device resembled the mating of three or four elaborate Russian samovars, all pressurized flasks, gauges, and conical pendulum governors, their spinning fly-balls now quiescent. Electrical wires ran from the Resonator to a set of Daniell-Dancer storage cells, and thence to a hand-cranked dynamo of the latest Wheatstone design. Bran could not fathom the machine’s purpose.
King walked over to the device and laid a proud hand on a bulbous part of it. “Here’s one of the vril canisters, obtained with Jellyneck’s invaluable help.”
“But what does it all do?”
King seemed happy to lecture. “Before I can answer that question, you must first know a truth not generally apprehended by the academy. All life—all organic matter—is subject to the influence of unseen and intangible shaping forces called morphic fields. I assume that you are aware through your expensively obtained education of the magnetic fields discovered by Faraday and others. Well, these morphic fields are similar, but act upon living tissues, influencing their properties. Every living organism has its unique signature field, a composite of all its lesser fields. My Resonator is able to superimpose one field upon another.”
“But to what effect?”
Hedley King grinned in a manner not entirely wholesome. “I believe a trial run would be the best illustration. Jellyneck, a drop of your blood, if you please.”
The dwarf pricked his finger and, apparently well familiar with the ritual, went to the Resonator, opened one drawer out of a rank of such niches, and squeezed out a crimson drop into the tin-lined receptacle, thereafter sliding the little drawer firmly shut. King did likewise in a parallel portion of the machine.
“My blood,” King explained, “resides in the dominant, or sending, portion of the device. Jellyneck’s sample, bearing its organic signature, occupies the receiving portion. The vril mediates and modulates between them, facilitating a one-way flow of instructions. Now, Jellyneck, if you would charge the storage cells—”
The dwarf began to crank the dynamo, working up a considerable sweat. When a sufficient quantity of electricity had been obtained, King closed a connection.
The fly-ball governors of the Resonator began to spin, crystals glowed, and a subliminal hum emanated from the device. Bran found himself entranced by the humming and the motion till they filled his senses. He might have been some Oriental monk fascinated by a spinning prayer wheel. When he finally looked away to speak to King, his breath was halted by an impossible sight.
Two identical Hedley Ki
ngs stood in the barn. But one wore the remnant tattered clothes of Jellyneck the dwarf.
“You—you have imposed your physiognomy on Jellyneck!”
“Correct. My morphic field has overlaid and subsumed his.”
Disbelieving his eyes, Bran was forced to run his hands over the altered dwarf, who submitted with a certain regal dignity. He found Jellyneck’s new body conformable in every respect to the template of King’s.
“This—this is not some twin brother of yours, brought out from hiding to fool me, is it?”
“Jellyneck, what were your first words to my son?”
Jellyneck spoke with King’s voice. “‘And you can go straight to hell!’”
“But this is a miracle! The implications are staggering!”
“Yes, they would be, if my machine were perfected. But as matters stand, it’s only fit for some stage conjuror to use to increase his prestige.”
“What are the difficulties?”
“First, the effect is temporary, lasting only so long as a current is supplied to the machine. Jellyneck’s sharing of my clean-limbed wholeness will be frustratingly brief, unless he wishes to live his life cranking a dynamo.
“Second, I can only impose patterns at a whole-body level. I long to be able to repair a damaged leg or arm, say, without altering the entire individual.
“And third, so far I have access only to the morphic instructions determining the brute corporal level. What I really desire is to discover the resonance of the soul! I truly believe that the patterns of our consciousness is eternally contained within the morphic fields as well.”
Bran was stupefied. “And then?”
“Then death would be no more! I would be able to resurrect anyone in both spirit and form, assuming I had some organic talisman of the deceased, to use as my seed.”
“How do you mean?”
Hedley King spoke with blunt frankness, his eyes agleam with fanatical ambition. “I would impose the soul and shape of the worthy deceased upon some living nonentity, a condemned criminal, say. Would that not be a fair punishment for some murderer, to host his victim’s new existence?”
Bran shivered, and instinctively clutched at the locket he wore that contained strands of his mother’s hair. The gesture did not go unnoticed by a gimlet-eyed Hedley King.
“And all that holds me back is a paltry sum of money, and access to a cadre of savants who could aid me. But, Bran—Roland, my son—with your help, I could surmount all these barriers. Together, we could create a paradise on earth!”
Bran’s head swam. To embark upon this grand venture with his real father! How much better than some stale interim at college, swotting up more useless information, only to be forced to pick up the dry ledgers of the Warner Gilead enterprises.
“My father will never assist you, no matter how worthy your plans.”
“Ah, but it is not your father I seek to enlist, just his connections! Let me explain….”
The lobby of the Parker House Hotel on School Street in Boston, an ornate venue of honey-blond wood paneling, crystal chandeliers, and thick floral carpets, teemed with the bon ton tonight. A large percentage of elite Boston society was here on this glorious late-July eve to welcome the man who would assuredly be the next president of the United States: General Ulysses S. Grant. For despite a strong showing by Democratic candidate Horatio Seymour, those in the know predicted an easy win for Grant in the all-important electoral college.
Warner Gilead was one of the savvy sponsors of this late-campaign fund-raising venture for Grant, and accordingly had intimate access to the sturdy old warhorse. As did his son, Bran.
Which was the entire pivot upon which Hedley King’s schemes revolved.
Dressed in his best formal clothes, holding an untouched glass of sparkling wine in one hand, Bran looked nervously around the crowded space, with its glittering women and dapper men, reminiscent of some Newport cotillion. He quaked inside to think of what he was daring to attempt, among this influential crowd.
King had promised to stay upstairs in his rented room, ensconced with the Morphic Resonator, which had been smuggled into the hotel in a large steamer trunk. He professed to be content to have his mundane needs attended to by the faithful Jellyneck. But Bran would not put it past the man to show his face anyhow. Over the past couple of weeks, Bran had come, disturbingly, to detect in his birth father more than a trace of “mégalomanie,” as the French had it.
After the first demonstration of the Morphic Resonator at Mount Golden, King and Bran had begun to conspire in earnest. Living with his birth father for the subsequent week—“the Kings of Mount Golden,” Hedley had gaily dubbed them—Bran became enthralled with the inventor to a degree he had not anticipated. The man boasted a magnetic personality. And then, too, King had shared his memories of Bran’s mother, Pella, further heightening the bonds between father and son. Bran had been so moved by King’s devotion to the dead woman as to confess to wearing a snippet of Pella’s hair about his own neck.
When all their plans were fully formed and vetted, Bran had returned home alone to Boston, leaving King and company to follow.
Greeted warmly by Warner Gilead at their Charles Street manse, Bran had facilely unloaded an invented fable about his time in Brattleboro with the Slowey family, feeling immense chagrin and guilt all the while. He sought to salve his conscience by telling himself that his actions, although duplicitous, would have no adverse effect on Gilead, but only a positive effect for King, and the world in general.
And now was nearly the time to carry the scheme out!
A member of the Parker House staff caught everyone’s attention by hammering a small gong, thus summoning the partygoers to the collation laid out in the grand ballroom, a lush spread prominently featuring the famous Parker House rolls and signature Boston cream pie.
In the bright, large, high-ceilinged, pillared room, the guest of honor could be observed at last: big as life, luxuriantly bearded, straining the buttons of his waistcoat, alternately smiling and puffing on a cigar. General Grant held court as informally but as commandingly as if still on the battlefield.
Warner Gilead corralled Bran. “Come, son, I want you to meet the general.”
On his way across the room, Bran rotated the ring he wore, so that the sharp, jagged piece deliberately affixed to the band would project downward underneath his finger.
Grant extended his hand. “So, Warner, this is the scion of House Gilead, hey? A fine young buck!”
Bran clasped the General’s hand, then jerked his palm across Grant’s flesh, as if suffering a reflexive action from an excess of nerves.
“I say, what a sting!”
Bran had a handkerchief in his hand. “Oh, General, I’m so sorry!” He dabbed up blood from the shallow gash, then hastily repocketed the stained cloth.
“No harm done, lad! ’Tis of no account compared to a Minié ball in the gut!”
Bran made his excuses then and left, while Warner was busy introducing someone else.
Feeling queasy, Bran hastened upstairs to Hedley King’s room.
To his surprise, King had a companion other than Jellyneck: an overblown doxy, some woman of low virtue with exposed décolletage. But King introduced her to Bran with insouciance.
“Roland, this is Trixibelle. She’s deigned to keep me company tonight.”
“How’s it hanging, sweetie?”
“But, but—”
“No, don’t trouble yourself to comprehend. It’s all part of the plan. Now, you have the sample?”
Bran handed over the bloody cloth. King trimmed out two small squares of crimson fabric and placed them in the Resonator.
“Jellyneck’s blood already lies in one dominant drawer matched now with Grant’s submissive drawer. My blood is paired submissively with Grant’s second, dominant sample. Now we just need to wait for the signal that our quarry is alone.”
In less than twenty minutes came a knock from a Parker House servant, liberally bribed, betokeni
ng that he had observed General Grant hieing himself off to a secluded water closet.
King instantly set the Morphic Resonator a-humming!
In less than an eyeblink, Hedley King assumed the mortal form of General Ulyssses S. Grant while, unseen several stories below them, Bran knew, Grant had morphed to the semblance of Jellyneck.
“Ha!” exclaimed King in Grant’s very tones. “Let the general try to convince everyone of his identity now!”
Bran regarded his birth father with some trepidation. “Remember now, sir, you promised—”
“Promises,” said King, “mean nothing to a politician! Jellyneck, secure him!”
Bran was pinioned helplessly in a trice by the abnormally strong dwarf. King, wearing Grant’s phiz, swiftly drew blood from the lad with a pin.
Then he pulled the locket from around Bran’s neck, painfully snapping the chain!
King moved to the Morphic Resonator and opened three new pairs of drawers while the machine still whirred its infernal tune. He shouted like some cheap prestidigitator:
“Bran to Jellyneck! Jellyneck to Bran! And Trixibelle to Pella!”
Filial blood and maternal hair properly emplaced, drawers shut, and the evil deed was done!
Again the dwarf had split the seams of his clothes, assuming Bran’s bulkier nature. Regarding himself in a mirror, feeling his own fine garments hanging loosely on his shrunken frame, Bran knew himself to be the spitting image of the dwarf.
But worst of all, the common whore Trixibelle now wore the semblance of Bran’s dead mother!
“Oooee, coo!” she trilled. “Ain’t I the queen of Sheba, now!”
King addressed the transfigured Jellyneck. “Mr. Bran Gilead, please eject this hideous troll from my rooms!”
Jellyneck stripped Bran’s clothes from him for his own use, leaving the lad in his floppy drawers and camise. Then Jellyneck-as-Bran picked up Bran-as-Jellyneck and hurled him out in the corridor, where he lay in a brokenhearted funk.
The next day, several papers in the city—the Boston Daily Advertiser, Boston Evening Traveler, Boston Herald, and Boston Journal, among others—would report upon a most curious incident attendant upon General Grant’s reception.
Clockwork Fairy Tales - A Collection Of Steampunk Fables Page 13