Taken by someone with the ability and finesse to get their fingers into my coat without being seen or detected.
Like a pickpocket.
My stomach knotted as I thought of that phantom in the mill, that sudden knife slicing me free, and those two words I had heard.
“We’re even.”
Confusion became understanding, fear became anger, and the pale white of my face turned hot red.
The fox had broken into the mill.
I heard the slightest sound behind me, and before I faced it, I already knew. I knew the figure would be there, standing as he was, on the very top of the windmill. Backlit by the early sun behind him, he was little more than a silhouette. But those telltale, triangular ears sewn onto his cap shaped out the shadow.
And in his hand, a folded rod of platinum.
“Kitt Sunner!” I screamed, all but limping my body back to the ravished, stone mill. “Come down here so I can kill you!”
Too weak to even move, I stumbled and collapsed, but Gren was already quickly following. He too was boiling red, screaming as he dragged himself to the mill. I got to my feet somehow and caught up. As we approached, Kitt’s silhouette waved a friendly hand at us and jumped backward off of the edge of the windmill.
“Jesus!” Gren exclaimed as Kitt disappeared behind the back of the mill. “He just fell five floors!”
“Get him!” I shouted. We split ways and took off around each side of the round mill, hoping to surround Kitt wherever he had fallen.
“There!” Gren said, seeing a shape lying hidden in a soft patch of weeds. He jumped at it only to find he had seized a lumpy pile of dirt with a smiling face finger-drawn on. The cutpurse had disappeared.
“It’s a trick!” Gren snarled to me.
“Of course it’s a trick!” I retorted. “It’s Kitt! It’s always a tri—“
“Nevermind! Then where is he?”
Our answer was delivered in the form of a sudden, chugging rumble coming back from the opposite side of the powder mill.
We hobbled back, wheezing, and found a muddy, thin set of tire tracks stretched out over the fields. Where they originated, I found a parked clump of steam-driven motorbikes, the expected mechanical steeds of those grease-coated Motorists.
“No!” I cringed. “Damn it, no! He’s got it, Gren! The turnkey! He got it away from me!”
“That’s not all,” Gren coughed. “Look! Bastard even swiped that toy!”
“What?!?” I looked back and, sure enough, the bubblemaker was gone. My corked bottle now sat alone in the dirt, robbed of its golden-geared partner.
I gritted my teeth as a breeze blew my dark bangs over my eyes, consuming the storm in my pupils.
“The coward!” Gren exclaimed. “Came, stole, and ran! Didn’t even say a word to us! I can’t believe after all we’ve gone through, the little thief’s gotten away again!”
I looked over at the remaining motorbikes. “No, he hasn’t.”
Without thought, I grabbed the handlebars of the closest bike and threw my leg over the seat.
“Whoa! Wait!” Gren cried out.
I took off like a shot after Kitt’s direction as Gren’s protests faded into the distance.
We were even, the fox had claimed.
Like hell we were.
The machine rattled under my body, and despite my lack of experience, I kept it moving with only somewhat unsteady precision and control. I was soon alone, tracing the tracks until they met a proper road. Following it, my heart pounded as I finally noticed a similar bike moving quickly just ahead of me. Kitt turned his head back, saw me, and immediately accelerated.
“You think that’ll stop me?!?” I shouted from a dry and scratchy throat.
I barreled down on Kitt, riding along at the highest speed I could reach. My hands felt clammy and numb. My eyelids grew heavy. I was woozy, having lived through far too much in the last two days. But I had to do this.
“Come on,” I whispered to myself. “Just hold together a little longer.”
I couldn’t catch up with Kitt, couldn’t overtake him, but I continued to match his speed and kept with him. Just like the night we had met, when I chased him through city streets and across rooftops, I knew the loser of the race would be the one who tripped up first. Only this time, he had the Doll in his hands. My mind became steeled, and my will, unshakeable. I would allow neither to disappoint.
There was the fickle issue of my body, though. I’ve often noticed in the grand stories of old that a steel mind and unshakeable will is always enough to pull the hero back from the verge of defeat, no matter how broken his bones are.
Such was not the case with Will Pocket that day.
Very quickly my head grew even heavier, which didn’t help my already quite limited ability to control a motorbike. My front wheel started to wobble and zigzag.
At that point my eyelids completely betrayed me, falling down perpetually every five seconds, clicking along like clockw—eh, well, repetitively. I verbally commanded them to stay alert, and during the argument that proceeded between my mouth and my eyes, my motorbike spun off of the road and slid into a patch of soft dirt at its edge. I tumbled face first, coughing up dust as my target drove victoriously away.
Damn.
I couldn’t even yell. Lying limp and alone, the filthy ground pressing cold against my cheek, I could only watch as the shadow of Kitt Sunner melted into the horizon like a shot of cold milk into bitter coffee.
And then I slept, as I simply could not endure another waking moment of this horrid day. I slept right there in the soil, and I slept hard. And in that morning slumber, I felt nothing. Not only did I fail to see the Doll, I failed to even create a dream. I believe that deep down that was how I wanted it. No visions. Just dead sleep. I was far too ashamed to face the one I loved, even in a dream, after what I had let happen. I couldn’t bear to look into those eyes and admit my failure. “It’s lost,” I would have had to say to her. “I’ve let him take your key, the last chance I held at bringing you back into this life. Whether you wake or sleep forever is now completely his choice. And for that, I am unspeakably sorry.”
Sleep forever. Though many deem such a thought sinful, I half-hoped as I closed my eyes in the dust that I could do just that. Maybe after a few eternities in a dead slumber, I would be able to muster the courage to face the Doll. Maybe then I could spread paint around the space, shade in a little color, and put together a nice dream for the two of us. Maybe she’d even come to forgive my failure and choose to stay with me.
I wouldn’t complain if such a fate befell me.
In fact, it’d make a decent enough ending for a story that had been going on for far too long.
But guess what?
“Pocket! Hey, come on!” Gren’s voice said, his hands pulling at my coat. “Get up!”
I cracked my eyes open. Little slivers of white they were, carved into my face. My friend was kneeling at my side, and behind him, the motorbike he had taken to track me down.
“Oh, good,” Gren continued. “Thought you were dead for a minute there.”
I watched a patch of clouds hideaway the shining sun above me.
“For a minute, I was,” I whispered, “but I can’t figure out how to make it stick.”
Hours passed.
Eventually we were found by a passing carriage, whose driver took pity on us and drove us to a small, countryside hospital. There, Gren and I, admitted under the aliases of Stanley and William Falston, were supplied with ointments and bandages and fresh, white sheets. We stayed the night, sleeping off our windmill beating, and arose at dawn before the nurses. We stole away with our clothes and items through an unlocked window, assuming we’d be unable to pay whatever number our bill would request. We made our way across the cold grass, slapping up the dew from their blades, jogging through the world to nowhere, no destination except away.
Days passed.
It was difficult, but once we figured out more or less where we had ended up
after the Motorists drug us out of the city proper, we were able to find refuge. Gren knew a place in the area, more of a scattered handful of buildings than an actual village, which sat on the crossroads of another smallish air dock. It was a spot Gren knew from his time with the pirates, who preferred to park the Lucidia at spots conveniently forgotten by most of the surrounding nation.
Amongst this scattered and forgotten handful was a tired, little dart-and-billiard parlor whose owner was well acquainted with Gren. As might be expected of someone of Gren’s profession, my friend would oft frequent the establishment, passing the time by playing cards or shooting billiards for money that he’d inevitably just hand back over the bar counter once night came around. Gren led me to this parlor immediately once we entered the town, promising that we’d find free room and board behind its yellowed doors.
“Why?” I dully asked, speaking my first word in what seemed like weeks as I followed Gren down the road.
“The owner keeps a back storeroom with a few beds and tables and things.”
“Why?” I asked again.
“Sometimes customers drink a little more than they can handle and need somewhere within falling distance to sleep it off.”
“Customers like you?”
“Only once. It was Jack’s fault. Bastard kept telling everyone that I have a weak stomach for whiskey. What, was I supposed to not show him wrong?”
“Probably.”
“Well, be glad I did, because if I’d ignored the boiler monkey, we’d be sleeping outdoors tonight.”
So Gren’s impulsiveness had at last yielded results. Good for him. I spoke no further complaint and marched along until we arrived at the billiard parlor. As promised, Gren was immediately welcomed by the staff, who happily agreed to let us stay as long as necessary. I remember standing there alone in the front room as Gren shuffled off into the distance with a few old acquaintances. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted the parlor’s barman looking me over.
“You a friend of Spader’s?” he said to me.
“Yeah,” I replied, not paying the man much mind.
“Well, get comfortable. The place’s a wreck, but you look like the type to get along fine in such accommodations.”
“What makes you think that?”
“You just have one of those bar-friendly faces.”
“So I look like a drunk?”
“Not at all. But a barman can tell the difference between a face passing through to his next drink and a face hung up on something more. Those are the faces with the really great stories.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t tell stories.”
“Didn’t ask you to.”
“Good.” I took a deep breath and looked at the man. He started to turn away and something within me told me to speak up. “Friend of mine’s a bartender,” I called out.
He glanced back and smiled. “Yeah? What’s his name?”
“Alan Dandy. You know him?”
“Dandy?” the man said, cocking his head. “Yeah, of course! Great man, Dandy! One of the best!”
“Really?”
“No,” he said, shrugging. “Never heard of him. Sorry.”
“Then why’d you say that?”
“Because you looked like you could really use a happy, little lie.”
The man was right. About a few things, really. For instance, I did get quickly comfortable living out of back of the parlor. Too comfortable. As my stay lengthened, I became sculpture, a statue in memory of myself, unpolished and shaped upon the funeral shrine that was my bed. I barely left the room given to me and spent my time sketching meaningless, tiny drawings on the wrinkled parchment that I had always kept on me. The pages that were to contain the ink of my vast, untold tales.
“I don’t tell stories,” I had told that man.
Not anymore.
I thought about this one morning as I lay on top of my shrine, watching flakes of dust circle my head like vultures.
In my left hand was a quill, and in my right, more mottled paper. I drew a tall half-circle and called it a tombstone. Over the scene, I scribbled an epitaph and blew the vultures out of my face.
HERE LIES POCKET THE BARD
DROPPED HIS PEN FOR A PRETTY HAND
AND LOST BOTH
There was a rapping at my door. I flicked the quill away and shoved the scrap under my pillow.
“Breakfast,” Gren said, entering with a tray filled with various-colored piles of mush. I tapped my index finger against one to watch it jiggle. I shrugged and rolled over on my side.
“Hmph,” Gren snorted at my back. “You could at least show a little gratitude for a free meal. I know you’re hungry.”
I shrugged.
“You want to tell me how long this little vow of silence is going to last?”
“Who’s silent?” I muttered.
“Just eat, damn it.”
I shrugged.
“Listen,” Gren said, “I’m about as miserable as you are right now, but starving yourself is just childish.”
“So I’m childish,” I replied.
“Childish and hungry ain’t a good mix.”
“Who said I was hungry?” I said. “You find my appetite, then sure, I’ll eat whatever flavorless lump you bring me. Until then, no thanks.”
Gren took a moment to grumble something angry to himself under his breath, and then gave civility one last go.
“Come on, Pocket,” he urged. “Hungry or not, you need your strength. And this stuff’s not that terrible.”
I shrugged.
“Then fine!” he barked, loudly slapping the tray down on a nightstand. “You want to sit here and rot your damn self away?!? Be my guest!”
He marched out of the room, slamming the door behind him. Once quiet had again returned to my four walls, I despairingly turned over to face my meal in all of its lack of splendor. I sighed and unenthusiastically stuck a spoon into a grey pile, porridge or something. A few mouthfuls of that and I was nearly put off of food forever.
Gren raised a suspicious eye to me a little later that day as he caught me strolling through the main room with my hat and coat on.
“You going somewhere?” he spoke, feigning a tone of disinterest.
“Outside,” I responded.
“What for?”
“What do you care?”
“I care plenty about getting spotted by one of our enemies, or did you forget—”
“I’ll be careful,” I stated, tugging my coat sleeve down over my freshly bandaged arm.
“You’d better,” Gren snarled as I began to walk away, “for my sake, Pocket!”
“I hear you.”
“Damn right, you do!” he called after me. “Now go on! Get out of here before you give me another headache! And by all means, take your time! Hell, I ought to thank you for the breather! I was getting tired of dealing with your moping all day and night!”
I opened the front door without looking back. “Then I guess it worked out for us both, Gren.”
I had no purpose, despite my suspicious departure, in taking that walk. I think I just needed a reason to move my parts. So I moved them, clomping along around the sleepy village without direction. I eventually ended up at the nearby air dock and spent a few hours leaning on a rail and watching a tourist blimp re-inflate. I lost myself in daydreams as I eyed the long, ribbed hose fill the dirigible with its lifting gas. Little pops and hisses made a song as they bled out and escaped from the tip of the nozzle. The cloth of the balloon rippled and dipped as it inflated, moving with the rhythm of an ocean beneath a great, black storm. I kept seeing the Doll’s face or, more frequently, her shapely and girlish figure in the shapes created by that shifting and expanding. Eventually, the men working the hose began to notice my extended loitering, and I decided to move along before I raised suspicion.
I ultimately ended up on the outskirts of the village, sitting on a rusted-over, pockmarked bin, one of those grand, self-regulating rubbish cans. It’s funny how a little ruddin
ess can be the most noticeable bit of color sometimes. I sat for awhile, too bored to wander any further but not bored enough to return to the billiard parlor. I clacked my golden heels against each other.
And now we come to the part of the story where our narrator finds himself completely alone. Not only alone in the obvious sense, that's been nothing new. You, dear audience, have seen him wander aimlessly, sleep uncomfortably, and drink excessively. But this is the part when he accepts himself as creature absolutely on his own. If I had been making up this story, I'd be in a lousy spot right now. I’ve never contended that Will Pocket was the hero of this tale, but at this point, he's the only one left on the stage, the only breathing body to fill that role.
I had thought about this as I sat on that old bin. I thought about my role and what purpose there was left in it. I had, in all realistic terms, nothing. My friends, or whatever they considered themselves to me, were water vapor in the wind, wafting away in the cold. I took a moment and tried to force myself into more optimistic thinking. I told myself to begin with a mental list of what I still had, what I could still fight for, but all I could come up with was a pile of what I had known and lost.
I had no direction, no point in giving meaning to words like “north” and “south.” I had no source of movement apart from my two working feet. I'd lost the Prospero and I'd lost, through Kitt, the Red Priest's shuttle. Every small point of refuge I’ve enjoyed, from the Gaslight Tea House to the Lucidia to a warm hospital bed to even that dingy, little rented room, had quickly been separated from me, and here I was, running off from another.
I had no help. Kitt left me and I’d just left Gren. The sky pirates were stuck in an ugly bit of oil and the tea lady was somewhere in a forest behind a veil of fog. And the only meaning I had left in all of this, the love for the Watchmaker's Doll, seemed a drowning flea in the bottom of an overpowering ocean, for I scarcely knew if the woman I loved would ever come to love me back, or even let her love herself.
So what did I have left? What did I ever have?
“’At's a right fancy bottle ya 'ave there,” someone said to me.
A group of unwashed vagrants were approaching. I remember the crunch of ice beneath their boots and between the whiskers of their mottled beards.
Turnkey (The Gaslight Volumes of Will Pocket Book 1) Page 56