“Hey there,” I said softly, walking to her. “Listen Dolly. Don't you worry about...ehhhh?”
She tumbled slowly backward to the floor, giggling. Not weeping. Giggling. Wrapped in her arms and upon her chest sat two extravagantly long-haired cats. Two white cats, one coated on top with creamy orange, the other with black spots, and both stretching little, bobbed tails that more resembled the end of a small rabbit.
“Adorable!” she said.
“Where did...” I began, before looking back to the Priest. “Ah, yes. I believe Dolly mentioned that you keep cats.”
“Oh no,” Quill said with a laugh. “They keep him.”
“Watch this,” Jack said, getting up. He grabbed an old tablecloth from the room and threw it over the captain's head as cover.
“Oh no!” Quill called out in mock concern. “The Red Priest has disappeared!”
“No!” Jack added, playing along. “Where did he ever go?”
The twin cats on the Doll stopped their duet of purring immediately and ran over to where the Priest stood in hiding.
“What?” I said. “You're kidding me.”
“Wait,” Jack snickered.
And then it happened. Cat after cat after cat appeared from seemingly nowhere. They appeared upon tables, down from rafters, from under furniture, and all moved in congregation to a huddled mass before their hidden captain. They all began a bothered cry for an appearance and, granting their wishes, the Priest revealed himself. The small creatures all leapt upon him, delighted for his return.
“Wow,” I said.
“Popular, isn't he?” Jack laughed. “Yeah, I tell ya, Pocket. You'd think he's carrying around fish in his boots, the way they keep after him.”
The Red Priest shrugged. “I can’t explain it any better than that.” He picked up the nearest cat, a rather proper-faced lady cat, the very sort I've seen in dreams, and began scratching her behind the ears. “It just happens whenever I enter town.”
“What happens?” I asked.
“Strays,” Quill said. “They just come out of the woodwork. Follow him around.”
“They love you!” Dolly said in ultimate amusement, clapping her hands.
“They kept trying to shadow me,” the Priest said. “Would run up into the Lucidia every time I climbed aboard. After awhile, I stopped trying to shoo them away.”
“Gave up the good fight?” I asked.
“Don't say it like that!” Dolly said to me. “Don't make the poor things sound like enemies. They’ve had a hard enough day, I’m sure, dealing with the crash!”
“Retracted,” I said with a laugh. I wish I could say that the production of laughter from my body was completely genuine, but that sadly wasn't so. It’s not that I disagreed with the Doll's argument, but just that my wounded pride was still clinging to Kitt's bitter words. I told myself that I was a man of mettle too strong to be cut to ribbons by one abrasive rant, and that Kitt was probably just speaking out of anger, anyway. I told myself this again and felt even worse for dwelling on it.
I didn’t say a lot else for the remainder of our meeting in the captain’s cabin. Instead, I watched with a smile as Dolly and the others cooed over the Red Priest’s mob of cats.
The Red Priest’s mob of cats. The concept is just so obviously, ridiculously un-pirate-like, so…adorable and docile, that it still makes me want to laugh. But you know, in that moment in the oil sea, the cats were to me an absolute godsend. They brought levity, if only for a moment, to the sinking ship, and I couldn’t have been more grateful. Perhaps those resilient, sky-faring felines, which so reminded me of the cats that oft fill my dreams, were of some magical ilk. Maybe they were the very same from my dreams and I had somehow summoned them to lift the spirits of those around me. Heh, that’s it. Magic familiars.
I glanced at the Doll, her slender fingers weaving through the fur like she had practiced the act for years. Just maybe she was a familiar as well, kindred to the cats, having spent just as much time waltzing through my dreams. Yeah, that’s it. A clockwork cat. I sketched such a thought in my head, picturing the whimsical girl smiling with a set of gilded cat-ears bolted to the sides of her head, a long fabricated tail swaying behind her in place of a turnkey.
I felt momentarily amused while thinking on these thoughts, but Kitt’s words again invaded, prompting another nosedive into sadness.
But, as I’ve said, I remained quiet, choosing not to give my wounded pride a voice. Instead, I tucked away my fallen mood and tried my best to maintain a casual and upbeat appearance for the others, not wanting to risk breaking the fragile cheerfulness that was sustaining my company’s collective morale. I listened like a student as they all discussed the cats, the ship, pleasant little anecdotes, and possible spices that the Doll might wish to employ in her culinary experimentation. Madame B never returned to the proceedings. Neither, as expected, did Kitt. For the best, I thought. Best they nurse their temperaments privately. When the talks were coming to a close, the Priest rubbed his beard and excused himself to check on his lady. His devoted cats followed suit. A moment later, the sounds of something shattering—I'm guessing ceramics plates thrown by a woman not yet fully recomposed—sent Hack-Jack and Quill racing out to assist.
And the Doll and I were alone once more.
She looked at me, smiled. I looked at her, smiled. She frowned and told me to stop lying.
“Excuse me?” I said in confusion.
“Stop pretending to be happy,” she said. “It's irritating.”
“You assume I'm putting on a pretense?”
“I know you are.”
“Oh, are you weren't a moment ago?”
“Of course not! I was upset. Then I got to play with some cats. I became happy again.”
“Doesn't seem like it.”
“Because you're acting so false. It's souring my mood.”
“Fine, be sour. You're in great company.” I kicked my boot against a small rubbish bin in the corner. It tumbled over, spreading old scraps and tobacco ash across the floor. I swore and bent down, using my sleeve as a push broom, sweeping the debris back into its container.
“You're in top form as always, Pocket,” I muttered to myself.
“All right,” Dolly finally said. “What's wrong with you?”
“Nothing.”
“What did he say to you out there?”
I rose and wiped the ash from my fingers to my pants. Looking away, I moved to the windows.
“What does Kitt ever say?” I responded, a loaded bitterness under my tongue. “He just stated the very obvious.”
The girl's only response was a drawn out sigh, and I returned it to her as I stood before the sunken view. I pressed my palms against the frosted glass. The thick black on the other side bubbled and slid, eternally dark as midnight, as it clouded and dirtied the sea. I left my breath on the glass as souvenir and looked out as far as I could through the slop. I couldn't even see my face in the reflection of the oily soup, the spilt blood of great industry.
“What are you looking for out there?” the Watchmaker's Doll asked.
“Myself.”
“Oh. Any signs?”
“No.” The white of my breath on glass faded to transparency, leaving no visible evidence that any boy ever stood against a wall of spotty black and sent air through his throat.
“I'm sorry,” she said.
“It's all right,” I replied. “It was a vain conquest.”
I turned my back to the window and was stunned to see the Doll holding a skinny dressing mirror before me, gold-framed and well-polished.
“Put that back,” I said with a halfhearted laugh.
“What do you see in the glass?” she asked.
“What do you think? A reflection.”
“Of?”
“The same silly sot that's always there.”
Dolly nodded and put down the mirror.
“Well, there!” she said. “We've found you right here. You can stop looking around outside.�
�
“I'd like to think that I could find myself out there as well.”
“Why?”
I sighed. “Dolly, it's been a long time since I've had answers to those sort of questions.”
“You're quite dramatic.”
“I know.”
“Well, that's just...”
“What?”
Her lips began to quiver.
“Dolly, what?” I said.
“Oh my. Oh my. Oh my!”
“Hey, relax.”
“The oil! All of that dirty oil!”
“Hey, who's being dramatic now?”
“No, look!” she shouted, grabbing my shoulders and spinning me back around toward the windows.
“Well,” I said, “I'll be damned.”
Glistening golden shapes appeared and disappeared through the petrol, little circular sparks that swam like metallic fish upward to the surface. One of the shapes slid momentarily up against the glass.
“It's a gear,” I said.
“Mine!” Dolly gasped. “Those are my gears!”
My mind moved back to the Doll's impaling, to the flow of shiny metal she spilt over the side of the Lucidia. “I suppose they are. My, my.”
Dolly ran immediately up to the glass and began pushing her fist against the spot opposite of the gear.
“Hey,” I said. “What are you trying to do?”
“Break it!”
“Break it?!? Are you mad?”
“I need it!”
“No, no. You're fine. The Priest replaced each of them. You'll be—”
“They're mine!” she shouted, punching harder. I quickly caught her fist.
“I'm serious! Cut that out! You'll injure your hand!”
“I don't care!”
“So what, you're going to break that glass, flood this chamber over a few pieces of—”
“Yes! Now let me go!”
“No chance.”
She struggled against me, tried to twist her hand from my grip. I caught her opposite shoulder and tried to hold her in place until she calmed down. She kicked me and I fell, pulling her down with me. The kicking continued, so I pinned her leg down with my thigh and clutched both of her tiny hands to the carpeted floor. She wrapped her free leg around my torso and attempted to pry me off. We battled for awhile, spinning and twisting and knocking over many of the captain's displayed possessions.
“You don't understand!” she cried, sliding against my rib cage. “Those are mine! Let me go so I can punch you!”
“Why the hell would I do that?” I said back, digging my knee into the carpet.
“Because you don't fight girls!” she yelled. “You let them win!”
“Who's fighting?” I retaliated. “I'm just trying to keep you from destroying everything!”
“Then you're not letting me win!”
We rolled and pulled and gripped for awhile longer, and just when I was about to finally concede, she gave in, dropping her shoulders as I arched over her. She breathed heavily, for reasons unknown, and looked up at the dark strands of my hair that hung above. I could faintly hear the ticking inside of her as her chest lifted and fell in rhythm.
Carefully, gently, I released her right hand and with my thumb, the only finger not sullied by tobacco ash, I wiped away a spot of smeared makeup from below her eye. When did she start wearing makeup? Apart from the lipstick she had received on the zeppelin tour, I’d never noticed her receive or apply such luxuries. Tracing her soft facial features with my eyes, I noticed new, subtle touches of color and shadow around her eyes as well. Must’ve been some of Alexia’s doing. At least, that was the most logical—
I stopped, realizing that the Watchmaker’s Doll seemed to notice that I was observing her, so I quickly smiled in apology and spoke in a whisper.
“What is it, Dolly? What's bothering you so much?”
“Those gears,” she pouted, “they're mine.”
“So?”
“So, they're...me. And I need them.”
I took a deep breath and asked the inevitable.
“What did you have in mind?”
The next thing I knew, I was topside, standing at the railing and peering at a cluster of clock gears poking up from the odorous sea.
“You’re kidding.”
“Hurry!” the Doll said, hopping in place, her heels clicking like the keys of an electric telegraph.
“Why are they rising to the surface instead of sinking?”
“Who knows?” Dolly said, clicking away. “Just get to it!”
“I know,” the Red Priest offered, leaning cross-armed against a beam. “Or at least I have a theory. I imagine they aren't actually rising and falling, but the ship is. Sliding around in this bathtub. It's probably creating little waves, shuffling the sunken debris about.”
“Don't call my pieces 'debris!'” the girl said.
“My apologies.”
The Doll pouted and stared at me. “Hurry now, please. Get my shiny pieces, okay?”
“I still don't understand what you expect me to do,” I said with a shrug.
“Do I have to tell you everything? That's not how men are supposed to—”
“Sure, sure. But what, you want me to take a swim in that slop?”
“Inadvisable,” the Priest interjected. “Not only is this petrol puddle highly toxic, it’s fair to assume that it's a long way to the bottom of the crash. Mister Pocket here would risk drowning if he took a dive to collect.”
“Good point,” I said, nodding in appreciation at the captain.
“Fortunately for him, he will not have to swim,” the Priest said, producing a small cannonball from his coat. “Watch.”
He tossed the projectile lightly over the side, directly into the oil. Rather than sink, the small ball bounced off of the surface with a metallic clank.
“You see?” the Priest said gleefully. “Metal beam, just under the surface there. If you look closely, you can see it when the water sways. See? Understand?”
“So you can just wade your way through the oil!” Dolly said enthusiastically to me.
“Thanks,” I muttered to the Priest.
“None needed,” he responded with a smile as my obvious sarcasm whizzed right over his shoulder.
The Doll took my arm and started pushing me to the railing.
“Hold on a moment,” I said, clutching the rails and pushing back. “We’re talking about a single, rusty line of metal, supported beneath by what, we don’t know. Don't you think we should discuss this plan in a little more detail before—“
“No!” Dolly said in a huff. “You have to get them before they sink down again.”
“I'm still not sure that—”
“Go! I need them!”
“Why?”
Exasperated, she waved her hands by her ears, shaking off my question.
“I don’t need a reason!” she waved. “I just…just go!”
“Dolly—“
“Fine! I hate you!”
“Whoa! Hold on now!”
“Do you want me to hate you?”
“Of course not, but—“
“Then go bring them to me!” She settled her frantic face into a pitiful one. “Please,” she said in a murmur.
I took a breath and weighed my options. She pouted.
“I’ll ruin my boots,” I muttered, grasping at any feasible excuse.
“You won’t ruin mine,” the Priest said, dropping something to the deck behind me with a smile and a clang.
The sound came from a set of...footwear. They were footwear. But they weren't.
“You’re…” I said, looking at the boiler-plated pair of knee-high, jointed, bronzed, casual walking boots, “…kidding.”
“No, sir,” the pirate tinkerer said with glee. “Give them a try.”
“They’re pretty…tall.”
“You’re pretty tall.”
“Hurry!” Dolly spouted. “The sinking!”
I grunted and began undoing my worn-dow
n bootlaces, feeling ridiculous.
“Hurry!” the Doll repeated. “Don’t be slow!”
I gave her a sour look, but silently complied, kicking off my shoes and plunging toe-first into the shiny, cobbled pair. They were surprisingly comfortable, the insides lined with soft padding that I later learned came from old, cut-up cabin pillows. I stood up, found my balance. Carefully, I lifted a leg and bent it at the knee. The shiny metal moved smoothly with my limb and I felt, if only for a second, a bit of a modern man.
“I'm not sure modern men walk around with their feet in little furnaces.”
“Perhaps not the ones you keep company with, Alan.”
“Mmm...perhaps...”
I admired the sun's reflection in the metal and cheerfully knocked the heel of one boot against the toe of the other.
“Well?” the Priest asked. Madame B had joined us on deck and was walking toward the scene with a hand over her chuckling mouth.
“Oh, no,” she laughed. “You’re putting him in the boots.”
“Hush,” the Priest said to her. “Mister Pocket?”
“Uh…nice.”
“Fit well, do they?”
“Yes. Surprisingly well. And very…flashy.”
“Well, that’s copper for you. Did you notice the pattern work on the side, where the plating overlaps? Makes a nice wing motif, yes? Another gift from your infamous faeries, looks like.”
“Eh?”
“They must be hiding secret affections from you, Pocket,” Madame B teased. “Little swooning, heartbroken sprites sending you sweet tokens.”
“I, uh, don’t think that’s how it works.”
“Just get in the damn oil.”
And that was that. Out of excuses, I simply did it. Removing my hat and eyeglass, I did it. Foot after armored foot, I climbed over the railing of the steamship Lucidia.
And so I went.
Alone and dipped to my knees in bronze, I went.
Into the sea.
I took two slow steps down the submerged metal beam. It immediately drooped deeper. I swung my arms to keep balance as I sunk deeper into the oil, until the blackness rose just up to my knees. I clenched my teeth and looked down. A greasy bubble popped against the side of the boots. I sighed, eying the muck dribble down the so-called “faerie wing” pattern with a foul gurgle.
Turnkey (The Gaslight Volumes of Will Pocket Book 1) Page 38