Dark Humanity

by Gwynn White

  Sal joined us the following morning, and the four of us headed out at dawn. The weather patterns over the English Channel could be unpredictable. The higher we went, the more likely we’d get trapped in a rapid east-west air current. If we stayed closer to the water, we’d be hit with marine conditions. And I hated the water. I always got nervous flying over it, and I liked flying over the Channel, renowned as it was for air pirates, even less. The Stargazer was fast, so I had no doubt we could outrun anyone, but I’d rather not find myself in the position of trying. Angus and Jessup were not as uptight. After getting over the initial surprise, they were both happy to be on holiday, even if Sal was along for the ride.

  As we passed over the white cliffs of Dover, I stood at the wheel of the ship and looked out at the waters of the Channel. A strong wind blew, but it was warm and sweet. It was the beginning of July, and while the hot summer air lingered in the streets of London, in the air I felt free. I could breathe there. I held the wheel steady as the ship glided from over the land to above the water. The balloon joggled with the change in air pressure then steadied.

  “Let’s have ten percent more lift,” I called up to Jessup who immediately adjusted the heat pan. Moments later the balloon pulled the gondola upward. The propeller worked steadily, easing us out over the water.

  The waters just offshore were a soft greenish blue. Once Dover was a speck behind us, the water grew deep. Its color faded to dark navy. It was not a far trip to Calais, a mere 48 kilometers, but I would be nervous the entire time. I held the wheel tightly; I did not want the others to see my hands were shaking.

  I gazed out at the waves. The sight of the water took me back in time. Once again I was a little girl sitting beside my mother on the bank of the Thames in Southwark. It was early morning, and the Thames was covered with thick mist. There was a heavy, fishy smell in the air. The Thames’ waters rippled, curling and breaking against the bankside. I wasn’t sure why we were there. My mother had woken me before dawn, and we had left the small London apartment we’d been sharing with three other families.

  My mother was crying hysterically, her face buried in her hands.

  “What’s wrong, mama?” I’d asked.

  My mother lowered her hands and looked at me. Her eyes were red and swollen. Wild wisps of dark brown hair had pulled from her bun and framed her face. “I just don’t know what to do with you!” she moaned hysterically.

  I remembered being scared, and it was not the first time. We’d left our farm in far-flung Cornwall after my father had disappeared. My mother never told me what had happened to him. He’d simply stopped coming home. When I asked her where he had gone, she would not answer me. I remembered that men came and took all of the furniture from our house. My mother made me pack a small bag and told me that we had to go to London or we would starve. My mother cried a lot and spoke little. I don’t know how long we lived in the cramped London apartment, but I remember my mother leaving before dawn and returning at dusk looking exhausted and smelling like body odor and raw meat. But no matter how much she worked, men still came and demanded money from her.

  That morning, beside the Thames, I was terrified. I didn’t know why. But I did know my mother was sad, maybe sadder than she’d ever been. I put my small hand into my mother’s and smiled at her, trying to comfort her.

  My mother looked down at me, pulled me into a tight embrace, and kissed me on the cheek. She then whispered in my ear. “It’s for the best. Mama loves you,” she said, and picking me up, threw me into the briny Thames.

  I hit the cold water with a startle. The fast waves began to pull me under at once. I was so young, I didn’t know how to swim. The Thames pulled me downstream.

  “Mama!” I screamed. “Mama!”

  I saw my mother standing on the bank, her arms folded across her chest. She stood completely still, as if she was either shocked by or was making peace with what she had just done. As the water of the Thames carried me away, I fought. I kicked my legs hard and screamed for my mother.

  “Mama! Help me, please!”

  “Oh my god,” I heard a man yell and moments later saw someone jump into the water.

  The waves had begun to fill my skirts, and they grew heavy. I could feel them pulling me down. I fought against the current as the deep reached for me, my head bobbing under again and again. My arms and legs were numb from the cold, and I could barely move them. As I was about to lose to the river, someone grabbed me.

  “Hold on,” a young man said. “Hold on.”

  He held me by the waist and pulled me, swimming against the current, toward the shoreline. The Thames fought him, as if the river sought to keep the prize it had won.

  With a heave, he pulled me out of the water. I lay in the grass on the bank. A young man, perhaps no more than fifteen years of age, looked down at me. He was dressed in a dark blue velvet suit.

  “Can you breathe? Are you all right?” he asked.

  My mother ran up to us. “Is she all right? Baby, are you okay?” She sounded hysterical.

  “What happened?” the boy asked.

  “She was dawdling and fell in,” my mother lied.

  The mist had been thick. He had not seen.

  I sat up, coughing out water.

  “Are you all right?” he asked me again, patting my back.

  I nodded mutely and turned to face my mother.

  She would not meet my eyes.

  My mother then pulled the young gentleman aside and thanked him and God for being there in her most desperate moment. After that, her words grew quiet, and she talked with great intensity to this young gentleman who only nodded solemnly. Wordlessly, the boy carried me back to the road. He loaded my mother and me into his vehicle. Lifting the hood covering the boiler, he checked some instruments. I heard the hiss of steam. He hopped in and pulled a chain attached to the throttle. Steam puffed from three brassy pipes on both sides of the transport. The air around us grew dense; it was like we were driving in a cloud. We set off with a jerk. I shivered in my wet clothes.

  As we entered Southwark, my mother spotted a cluster of lilies growing at the side of the road. She asked the young man to stop, and she picked a large bundle. When she got back in, she whispered to the boy to carry on and shortly thereafter we were at the door of the St. Helena’s Orphanage and Charity School.

  The young man stopped the vehicle, and pulling a lever, let it sit in idle. I could hear the hot water rolling in the boiler. My mother lifted me out. She tried to take my hand, but I pulled it from her. I was wet, freezing cold, and frightened out of my mind. I followed ruefully behind her.

  My mother knocked loudly on the door. We waited for several minutes, but no one came. She knocked again; still there was no answer.

  My mother sighed heavily and looked back at the waiting gentleman. She knelt and looked at me.

  “Give these to the nuns,” she said, passing me the large bouquet of lilies.

  I stared at her.

  “I have made so many mistakes,” she said miserably then looked at me, large tears falling from her eyes. “I will go to debtor’s prison, and I don’t know how long I’ll be there. I will try to work off the debt then come back for you. Be a good girl,” she said then kissed my forehead. “I’m so sorry,” she added, her voice cracking as she held back a sob. She turned and went back to the vehicle. Moments later the young gentleman and my mother pulled away.

  The boy looked back, a worried and despairing look on his face. My mother never looked behind her. It was the last time I saw her.

  “Lily, problem,” Jessup yelled, shaking me—thankfully—from my memories. He was looking out his long spyglass. I followed the direction of his gaze and adjusted my goggles: indeed, a problem. Behind us, a large but tattered pirate ship had dropped out of the thick bank of clouds. Oh yes, this was a problem.

  Chapter Seven

  “What kinds of weapons do you carry?” Sal asked as he stared through the spyglass at the ship coming in behind us. The ship had double
propulsion—a modification illegal for a racing ship—and was moving in fast.

  “Side arms only. We run light and lean. Right now, an emphasis on run.” I looked up at the clouds. On the horizon, a tower cumulus cloud was forming. Having spent the last three years ferrying around a renowned cloud scientist, Luke Howard, and exchanging everything we knew about clouds and airships, I knew the tower would propel us up—fast. With a punch of propulsion, hopefully we would outmaneuver and outrun them.

  “There,” I said to Jessup, pointing to the tower cloud.

  “Oh Lily, you sure?” he asked.

  Sal had opened the hatch to the gear galley; Angus was looking out.

  “Better belt in,” I told Jessup then turned to Angus. “Ready?” I asked him. “When the time comes, I’m going to need some punch or we’re all going to see stars.”

  “Just say the word,” he said then dropped below. Sal crawled into the galley to help.

  I kept one eye on the ship behind me and another on the cloudbank ahead. The pirate ship would break starboard to avoid the cloud tower—any ship would and should break starboard. It would be a game of nerves.

  The propeller on the Stargazer kicked up a notch, the gears turning quickly, and soon we were rocketing across the sky. Regardless, the pirate ship dropped in close behind us. I looked back and adjusted the lenses on my goggles, trying to make out the symbol on the side of their balloon. As the ship edged starboard, I saw it. The balloon bore a burning castle tower painted in red with a black bird perched on its top: Burning Rook. Dammit.

  “Burning Rook,” I yelled up to Jessup.

  “Bloody hell,” Jessup grumbled, his hand holding the heat valve tightly.

  The Burning Rook was one of the most notorious ships to troll the Channel. Captain Sionnaigh piloted the vessel and was well-known for dumping riders into the water while sorting out their goods. While the Stargazer carried no cargo or treasure, the famous ship was worth a nice ransom. Suddenly I wished I had painted over the triskelion before we’d left.

  “Miss Stargazer, please cut propulsion and allow us to board for a little chat,” a voice boomed across the sky.

  I looked back. Toward the prow of the Burning Rook they had rolled forward an enormous horned speaker. I could see the sun glinting off the brass. The captain, wearing his red tricorn hat, stood behind the horn.

  “Lily, there’s lightning in those clouds,” Jessup called as he looked at the tower cloud.

  Dammit again. A forming storm cloud was one thing. A formed storm cloud was something different. I heard the rumble of thunder.

  I looked back at the Burning Rook. The captain was pacing at the front, waiting for me, expecting me to slow, to bear starboard. I could see the pilot shouting at him. His crew knew it was time to break starboard. Any minute now the air current would pull us in and up.

  I held the wheel steady. A strong wind came in, shifting the Stargazer slightly port. I turned the wheel and headed directly toward the cloud. Behind me, the Burning Rook started to slow and turn. I caught sight of the captain once more; his spyglass was centered on me. I blew him a kiss, turned my back to him, and held tight as the Stargazer rolled into the cloudbank.

  The bow of the ship lifted slightly. We were there. Angus, feeling the movement, punched propulsion, and we cut a hole into the updraft.

  “Whoa!” Jessup yelled as a moment later we were being thrust upward in a draft with enormous speed.

  It was like we were being sprayed out of a water fountain. My heart dropped into my boots. I braced myself against the wheel, holding on for dear life. Wind gushed around us. The Channel and the Burning Rook sank into the distance below us. The air was dewy wet. I heard the low rumble of thunder. I knew that if we shot too far up the air would get thin, and we might black out. I had an altimeter, but I kept my eyes on the Stargazer’s balloon. It would soften as air pressure decreased. She would tell me when it was time. A moment later, I saw the balloon deflate. I reached down and pulled the rope connected to the galley bell. We needed to cut out of the upstream. The propeller groaned. I was thankful that Sal was there. Alone, Angus would not have been able to give enough speed to catch the out draft in time. The gears kicked hard, and I felt the gondola thrust horizontally against the vertical lift. The balloon ropes strained, tipping the gondola slightly backward from the bow as the ship protested. One tether at the very front snapped.

  “Jessup, release air,” I yelled.

  Holding on tight, Jessup opened the flap and let the hot air release from the top. The balloon softened further. The gondola dragged the balloon with it as we searched for the out draft.

  “Be ready,” I called to Jessup. We both knew that moments after we came out of the cloud tower, the balloon would need lift or we would fall like a stone toward the water.

  With one last hard push, the Stargazer broke free of the upward draft. Lightning rocked the clouds behind us. We were flying fast through the air, tossed by the cloud and running on propulsion. The Burning Rook was nowhere to be seen, but in the far off distance, I spotted the air towers of Calais.

  “Now, Jessup! Now!” I yelled. He set the burners on high; an inferno of gold and yellow leapt into the balloon.

  The Stargazer shot forward, and despite the propeller kicking hard, it suddenly slowed to a stop. There was simply not enough lift. Then, she dropped. For a single, terrifying second, we were free-falling toward the water. Suddenly, the lift caught us. The heat in the balloon made up the gap, and we were coasting.

  After several minutes of fast and very, very high flying, Angus opened the gear hatch, and he and Sal came onto the deck.

  “I don’t think we’ve ever flown so high,” Angus said, looking over the side of the ship.

  A strange silence overcame us. We were all filled with a mixture of relief and awe. Perhaps we’d risen too high; I felt lightheaded. Below the ship, the sea birds flew toward the shoreline. Angus was right. We had never been at this high of an altitude before. Far below, the waters of the Channel were glossy in the early morning light.

  Sal took my hands, kissing each one. “So young but so talented.”

  “I’d like to see Cutter try that,” Jessup called down.

  Everyone laughed, and we cruised toward Calais.

  Chapter Eight

  As we came in over Calais, we lowered altitude to catch the main ferry routes across Europe. The total trip from London to Venice would take about twenty-four hours at the Stargazer’s normal cruising speed. We’d planned to put in near Zurich before we crossed the Alps. It would be dangerous to cross the mountains at night, and we would need an update on the range’s weather conditions. After outrunning the Burning Rook, I figured a little 4,000 meter mountain range would be no problem.

  It was near midnight when the red lanterns of Zurich’s airship towers appeared on the horizon. We were grateful. It had been a long day. The laudanum was keeping my headaches at bay and my mood light, but I looked forward to sneaking off for a few hits on a pipe. In Zurich, it would be easy to find somewhere to smoke. It was always easy to find opium; you just had to know where to look. What I wasn’t looking forward to was “the look” Jessup would give when he knew my habit was getting the better of me. Angus never said much. Our history was longer, and he understood me better. I also understood him. I’d fished him out of the bottom of a bottle of Scotch more than once.

  There were a dozen ships docked at the Zurich towers, a popular stop for any traveler before and after the Alps. There were transport ships, personal yachts, and some single-person aircrafts, one of which even had an apparatus that looked like wings. Armed watchmen patrolled the platforms. Jessup settled with the stationmaster, and we tethered in for the night.

  “Let’s go have a drink,” Sal called encouragingly.

  We took the lift down to the wharf at the base of the towers which were situated near Lake Zurich. There were a dozen or so buildings situated there. The wharf was an outpost for travelers: air, land, or sea. The merchant shops, m
any of which were still open, showcased all manner of supplies. A stone gateway with a clockwork mermaid sitting on top stood over a road that led away from the lake toward the city.

  There were a couple of taverns open; we chose the busiest. We could hear the raucous noise within as we drew close. Outside the tavern were parked a dozen or so steam or pedal vehicles, their brass and copper gears glimmering. The tavern lights were powered by a small windmill on the roof that caught the air coming off the lake. The lights flickered from bright to dim, illuminating the sign over the tavern door.

  “The Crow’s Nest,” Sal said, reading the German name over the door.

  “German too?” I asked.

  “It is a dialect of German, but yes, of course,” he said with a smile as he held open the door for me.

  Jessup rolled his eyes.

  When we entered the tavern, the smell of roasting meat and freshly baked bread nearly overwhelmed me. There was a large stone fireplace at one end of the tavern; a whole lamb turned on the spit. My stomach growled hungrily. I was intrigued, however, by a small clockwork figure at the wheel of the spit. The small machine had arm-like appendages that kept the spit rotating. Behind the bar was a similar contraption pouring ale at what appeared to be the perfect pace.

  “Let’s grab a table,” I called.

  The place was filled with travelers: air jockeys and their crew, grease stained pedal riders, and steamboat sailors. There were also the usual carnal delights. The barmaids wore black lace or red satin corsets decorated with metal trim, short black skirts or shorts, and lacey stockings. Breasts were more than half heaved out; the customers pawed at the fleshy displays. To add to the bawdy atmosphere, a mostly naked woman sat on a pedestal in a stone alcove near the fireplace playing a callioflute. The instrument, powered by steam and water, created sharp, alluring sounds. Water sprayed onto the woman’s body as she worked the mouths of the flute. The steam made her hair curly and skin dewy.