by S. T. Joshi
She was glad she’d thought to wear such nondescript attire. No one would pay a girl so plain any mind if she kept her head down. So very little stood between Anna and her love: what were dark hallways, a couple doors, a few mech servants easily dispatched? She licked her lips. She would find him, console him, reassure him that someone saw beneath his skin and mech. Fix him body and soul. She smiled as she stepped into the shadows at the edge of the room.
A trail of his oil led down a gas-lit corridor, past dark doors and silent rooms. Ahead, a servant bustled through swinging double doors into the hallway and hurried away. Anna darted ahead on silent feet, easing the swinging door closed behind her.
The bare-chested King was prone on a wheeled exam table. The doctor stood before him, hands and lab coat covered in oil, tools of his trade strewn about side tables and the floor. Anna froze, but the man didn’t acknowledge her.
The King’s mech was still; his skin pale. His blue eyes were dark and blank. His lips hung loose above his perfect, white teeth. She wanted to kiss them until he awoke.
But the doctor was between them. He was a man, not a mech. An unexpected hurdle. But it could not be harder to dispatch mortal life than it had been to end a mechanical one. Anna picked up a wrench with a head as big as her fist. She stepped forward. Then the doctor spoke.
“Hand me that plumber’s wrench, Sophia.”
He reached backwards and snapped twice. Anna’s throat went dry. When she didn’t move, the doctor turned.
“Where the devil is Sophia?”
Anna swallowed. “Kitchen?”
He snatched the tool out of her hand, and fit it over a huge nut above where the King’s heart should be. After two turns, the doctor threw a switch in the middle of the mech’s metal chest.
Lights blinked furtively. Gears whirred, stuttered, whirred again.
“Blast! Have you no will to live?” The doctor slammed his fist on the mech so hard, even the King’s feet twitched. “I didn’t bring you here to die again, damn it!”
The doctor’s hand went back to the switch as an alarm cry met their ears. Anna’s blood ran cold: they’d found the bio-mech servant in the salon. Feet ran past the door, and the doctor cursed again. He stood and wiped his hands on his coat.
“Shut him down,” he said and brushed past her without waiting for a reply.
The doors rocked closed. The sounds of alarm retreated. There was only the pounding of Anna’s heart and the weak hiccupping of the King’s mech.
Alone! She flew to his side and brought her face close to his, running her hands across skin and mech. A gasp escaped her lips. His eyes flickered; he’d recognized her. She kissed his lips until they shuddered. She laughed, choking back tears of relief and joy.
“I’m here, my love,” she whispered.
His lips twitched again and his lungs ground out an attempt at a sound. She watched carefully, stroking his face as he tried again and again to speak.
“He…lp.” His eyes rolled toward the door and his fingers twitched toward the edge of the table. She took his hand. His voice got stronger. “Help.”
“Yes,” Anna assured him. “Yes, I’m here to help.” She released the breaks on the table and turned it toward the doors.
She sped through hallways toward the back of the house where the steam-hack would be waiting.
The loading dock was deserted except for her driver. His eyebrows shot up when he saw the King.
“I ain’t no hired thief, miss,” he protested. “My hack’s mech, but I ain’t sunk that low yet.”
“Get him in the back and keep to your own business,” she told him, more calm and sure than she’d ever been. “He’s mine.”
My Aunt Margaret’s Mirror
Walter Scott
Introduction
The species of publication which has come to be generally known by the title of Annual, being a miscellany of prose and verse, equipped with numerous engravings, and put forth every year about Christmas, had flourished for a long while in Germany before it was imitated in this country by an enterprising bookseller, a German by birth, Mr. Ackermann. The rapid success of his work, as is the custom of the time, gave birth to a host of rivals, and, among others, to an Annual styled The Keepsake, the first volume of which appeared in 1828, and attracted much notice, chiefly in consequence of the very uncommon splendour of its illustrative accompaniments. The expenditure which the spirited proprietors lavished on this magnificent volume is understood to have been not less than from ten to twelve thousand pounds sterling!
Various gentlemen of such literary reputation that any one might think it an honour to be associated with them had been announced as contributors to this Annual, before application was made to me to assist in it; and I accordingly placed with much pleasure at the Editor’s disposal a few fragments, originally designed to have been worked into the Chronicles of the Canongate, besides a manuscript drama, the long-neglected performance of my youthful days – ‘The House of Aspen.’
The Keepsake for 1828 included, however, only three of these little prose tales, of which the first in order was that entitled ‘My Aunt Margaret’s Mirror.’ By way of Introduction to this, when now included in a general collection of my lucubrations, I have only to say that it is a mere transcript, or at least with very little embellishment, of a story that I remembered being struck with in my childhood, when told at the fireside by a lady of eminent virtues and no inconsiderable share of talent, one of the ancient and honourable house of Swinton. She was a kind of relation of my own, and met her death in a manner so shocking – being killed, in a fit of insanity, by a female attendant who had been attached to her person for half a lifetime – that I cannot now recall her memory, child as I was when the catastrophe occurred, without a painful reawakening of perhaps the first images of horror that the scenes of real life stamped on my mind.
This good spinster had in her composition a strong vein of the superstitious, and was pleased, among other fancies, to read alone in her chamber by a taper fixed in a candlestick which she had had formed out of a human skull. One night this strange piece of furniture acquired suddenly the power of locomotion, and, after performing some odd circles on her chimney-piece, fairly leaped on the floor, and continued to roll about the apartment. Mrs. Swinton calmly proceeded to the adjoining room for another light, and had the satisfaction to penetrate the mystery on the spot. Rats abounded in the ancient building she inhabited, and one of these had managed to ensconce itself within her favourite Memento Mori. Though thus endowed with a more than feminine share of nerve, she entertained largely that belief in supernaturals which in those times was not considered as sitting ungracefully on the grave and aged of her condition; and the story of the Magic Mirror was one for which she vouched with particular confidence, alleging indeed that one of her own family had been an eye-witness of the incidents recorded in it.
“I tell the tale as it was told to me.”
Stories now of much the same cast will present themselves to the recollection of such of my readers as have ever dabbled in a species of lore to which I certainly gave more hours, at one period of my life, than I should gain any credit by confessing.
August 1831.
Aunt Margaret’s Mirror
“There are times
When Fancy plays her gambols, in despite
Even of our watchful senses – when in sooth
Substance seems shadow, shadow substance seems –
When the broad, palpable, and mark’d partition
‘Twixt that which is and is not seems dissolved,
As if the mental eye gain’d power to gaze
Beyond the limits of the existing world.
Such hours of shadowy dreams I better love
Than all the gross realities of life.”
Anonymous
My Aunt Margaret was one of that respected sisterhood u
pon whom devolve all the trouble and solicitude incidental to the possession of children, excepting only that which attends their entrance into the world. We were a large family, of very different dispositions and constitutions. Some were dull and peevish – they were sent to Aunt Margaret to be amused; some were rude, romping, and boisterous – they were sent to Aunt Margaret to be kept quiet, or rather that their noise might be removed out of hearing; those who were indisposed were sent with the prospect of being nursed; those who were stubborn, with the hope of their being subdued by the kindness of Aunt Margaret’s discipline; in short, she had all the various duties of a mother, without the credit and dignity of the maternal character. The busy scene of her various cares is now over. Of the invalids and the robust, the kind and the rough, the peevish and pleased children, who thronged her little parlour from morning to night, not one now remains alive but myself, who, afflicted by early infirmity, was one of the most delicate of her nurslings, yet, nevertheless, have outlived them all.
It is still my custom, and shall be so while I have the use of my limbs, to visit my respected relation at least three times a week. Her abode is about half a mile from the suburbs of the town in which I reside, and is accessible, not only by the highroad, from which it stands at some distance, but by means of a greensward footpath leading through some pretty meadows. I have so little left to torment me in life, that it is one of my greatest vexations to know that several of these sequestered fields have been devoted as sites for building. In that which is nearest the town, wheelbarrows have been at work for several weeks in such numbers, that, I verily believe, its whole surface, to the depth of at least eighteen inches, was mounted in these monotrochs at the same moment, and in the act of being transported from one place to another. Huge triangular piles of planks are also reared in different parts of the devoted message; and a little group of trees that still grace the eastern end, which rises in a gentle ascent, have just received warning to quit, expressed by a daub of white paint, and are to give place to a curious grove of chimneys.
It would, perhaps, hurt others in my situation to reflect that this little range of pasturage once belonged to my father (whose family was of some consideration in the world), and was sold by patches to remedy distresses in which he involved himself in an attempt by commercial adventure to redeem his diminished fortune. While the building scheme was in full operation, this circumstance was often pointed out to me by the class of friends who are anxious that no part of your misfortunes should escape your observation. “Such pasture-ground! – lying at the very town’s end – in turnips and potatoes, the parks would bring L20 per acre; and if leased for building – oh, it was a gold mine! And all sold for an old song out of the ancient possessor’s hands!” My comforters cannot bring me to repine much on this subject. If I could be allowed to look back on the past without interruption, I could willingly give up the enjoyment of present income and the hope of future profit to those who have purchased what my father sold. I regret the alteration of the ground only because it destroys associations, and I would more willingly (I think) see the Earl’s Closes in the hands of strangers, retaining their silvan appearance, than know them for my own, if torn up by agriculture, or covered with buildings. Mine are the sensations of poor Logan:
“The horrid plough has rased the green
Where yet a child I strayed;
The axe has fell’d the hawthorn screen,
The schoolboy’s summer shade.”
I hope, however, the threatened devastation will not be consummated in my day. Although the adventurous spirit of times short while since passed gave rise to the undertaking, I have been encouraged to think that the subsequent changes have so far damped the spirit of speculation that the rest of the woodland footpath leading to Aunt Margaret’s retreat will be left undisturbed for her time and mine. I am interested in this, for every step of the way, after I have passed through the green already mentioned, has for me something of early remembrance: – There is the stile at which I can recollect a cross child’s-maid upbraiding me with my infirmity as she lifted me coarsely and carelessly over the flinty steps, which my brothers traversed with shout and bound. I remember the suppressed bitterness of the moment, and, conscious of my own inferiority, the feeling of envy with which I regarded the easy movements and elastic steps of my more happily formed brethren. Alas! These goodly barks have all perished on life’s wide ocean, and only that which seemed so little seaworthy, as the naval phrase goes, has reached the port when the tempest is over. Then there is the pool, where, manoeuvring our little navy, constructed out of the broad water-flags, my elder brother fell in, and was scarce saved from the watery element to die under Nelson’s banner. There is the hazel copse also, in which my brother Henry used to gather nuts, thinking little that he was to die in an Indian jungle in quest of rupees.
There is so much more of remembrance about the little walk, that – as I stop, rest on my crutch-headed cane, and look round with that species of comparison between the thing I was and that which I now am – it almost induces me to doubt my own identity; until I find myself in face of the honeysuckle porch of Aunt Margaret’s dwelling, with its irregularity of front, and its odd, projecting latticed windows, where the workmen seem to have made it a study that no one of them should resemble another in form, size, or in the old-fashioned stone entablature and labels which adorn them. This tenement, once the manor house of the Earl’s Closes, we still retain a slight hold upon; for, in some family arrangements, it had been settled upon Aunt Margaret during the term of her life. Upon this frail tenure depends, in a great measure, the last shadow of the family of Bothwell of Earl’s Closes, and their last slight connection with their paternal inheritance. The only representative will then be an infirm old man, moving not unwillingly to the grave, which has devoured all that were dear to his affections.
When I have indulged such thoughts for a minute or two, I enter the mansion, which is said to have been the gate-house only of the original building, and find one being on whom time seems to have made little impression; for the Aunt Margaret of today bears the same proportional age to the Aunt Margaret of my early youth that the boy of ten years old does to the man of (by’r Lady!) some fifty-six years. The old lady’s invariable costume has doubtless some share in confirming one in the opinion that time has stood still with Aunt Margaret.
The brown or chocolate-coloured silk gown, with ruffles of the same stuff at the elbow, within which are others of Mechlin lace; the black silk gloves, or mitts; the white hair combed back upon a roll; and the cap of spotless cambric, which closes around the venerable countenance – as they were not the costume of 1780, so neither were they that of 1826; they are altogether a style peculiar to the individual Aunt Margaret. There she still sits, as she sat thirty years since, with her wheel or the stocking, which she works by the fire in winter and by the window in summer; or, perhaps, venturing as far as the porch in an unusually fine summer evening. Her frame, like some well-constructed piece of mechanics, still performs the operations for which it had seemed destined – going its round with an activity which is gradually diminished, yet indicating no probability that it will soon come to a period.
The solicitude and affection which had made Aunt Margaret the willing slave to the inflictions of a whole nursery, have now for their object the health and comfort of one old and infirm man – the last remaining relative of her family, and the only one who can still find interest in the traditional stores which she hoards, as some miser hides the gold which he desires that no one should enjoy after his death.
My conversation with Aunt Margaret generally relates little either to the present or to the future. For the passing day we possess as much as we require, and we neither of us wish for more; and for that which is to follow, we have, on this side of the grave, neither hopes, nor fears, nor anxiety. We therefore naturally look back to the past, and forget the present fallen fortunes and declined importance of our family in recalling the
hours when it was wealthy and prosperous.
With this slight introduction, the reader will know as much of Aunt Margaret and her nephew as is necessary to comprehend the following conversation and narrative.
Last week, when, late in a summer evening, I went to call on the old lady to whom my reader is now introduced, I was received by her with all her usual affection and benignity, while, at the same time, she seemed abstracted and disposed to silence. I asked her the reason. “They have been clearing out the old chapel,” she said; “John Clayhudgeons having, it seems, discovered that the stuff within – being, I suppose, the remains of our ancestors – was excellent for top-dressing the meadows.”
Here I started up with more alacrity than I have displayed for some years; but sat down while my aunt added, laying her hand upon my sleeve, “The chapel has been long considered as common ground, my dear, and used for a pinfold, and what objection can we have to the man for employing what is his own to his own profit? Besides, I did speak to him, and he very readily and civilly promised that if he found bones or monuments, they should be carefully respected and reinstated; and what more could I ask? So, the first stone they found bore the name of Margaret Bothwell, 1585, and I have caused it to be laid carefully aside, as I think it betokens death, and having served my namesake two hundred years, it has just been cast up in time to do me the same good turn. My house has been long put in order, as far as the small earthly concerns require it; but who shall say that their account with, Heaven is sufficiently revised?”
“After what you have said, aunt,” I replied, “perhaps I ought to take my hat and go away; and so I should, but that there is on this occasion a little alloy mingled with your devotion. To think of death at all times is a duty – to suppose it nearer from the finding an old gravestone is superstition; and you, with your strong, useful common sense, which was so long the prop of a fallen family, are the last person whom I should have suspected of such weakness.”