by Ian Whates
That suited Veerti just fine. It wasn’t his first time at this kind of thing. And if the shopkeeper was drunk enough, it could be some time before the deed was noticed, broadening the cast of suspects and making it harder to find clues.
He had got his hands on Iiris’s key, pressed it into a bar of soap, and cast an identical key from metal.
And today was the day to take action. When the clock struck twelve and the owner was presumably at the dinner table, Veerti went to try his key in the lock. He checked that no one was watching, slipped the key into the lock, and turned. Worked like a charm. He had inquired about the layout and organisation of the rooms while gallivanting with Iiris. Iiris had also told him about her boss’ practice of stashing his rainy-day fund in the workshop. The master was a penny-pincher, keeping the money he received from customers in a chest of drawers. Veerti was experienced in these things and opened it easily. A heavy purse slipped into his breast pocket. Drawer closed, padlock in place, and the shopkeeper wouldn’t notice a thing.
A neat row of stylish hats stood on a shelf. Veerti couldn’t resist the temptation and grabbed the one in the middle. When he had gone a few blocks away from the shop, he threw his own billycock aside and placed the top hat on his head. With it on, he looked just like a tycoon. His jacket wasn’t nearly as dapper, but he would get a new one from the tailor straight away.
Actually, he could go to Siiri’s place now and take his sister shopping. There were all sorts of things she had wanted so badly, such as some beautiful muslin cloth, but they had never had money for things like that. Now they would, and Siiri would be so happy.
Suddenly he felt a strange sensation. It was as if the world had shattered to pieces in front of his eyes. Some kind of vision problem, maybe? Perhaps it was yesterday’s moonshine still pressing on the back his eyes, or maybe he was losing his sight, like his granddad, who had spent his last years completely blind and dependent on the charity of others.
Veerti laughed. He saw himself in a stylish suit surrounded by young ladies, each more lovely than the next. The bank president shook his hand and congratulated Veerti on the manor he had just bought for himself. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a glimpse of his previous life: his mother’s tired eyes; the wretched pants patched three times over; Eeverti from next door beating his calves with a stick. Never again, never...
One, two, three... impossible things, worlds that pressed in on his perception in a continuous stream.
In one, he walked on the right side of the street, and in another, on the left.
In one, he didn’t go into the hatter’s shop, no, and he didn’t get hit by a car... Veerti laughed. Where did that car come from with its steam a-puffing? Little by little his vision sharpened, but he still looked at the world as if through a fly’s eyes.
He lurched into the street, not noticing the chimney-bus approaching him at speed from the right.
At the last moment he realised it was the hat that had obscured his vision, though it sounded odd: how could you lose your sight to a hat? And then it was too late.
Oskari
“Nothing ever happens around here,” Oskari had just said to his friend when they heard a crunch. In an instant, a crowd of astonished onlookers formed a wall in front of the spot where the accident had occurred. Oskari tried to peer through the crowd, but the adults were big and blocked his view. But their muttered words fuelled his imagination.
“He walked right in front of the bus!”
“No, the other fellow pushed him.”
“What other fellow? There was only one.”
“That man with the hat shoved him.”
“What man with the hat?”
A gap opened up in the mass of people, and Oskari got a glimpse of the accident. The man’s head had been crushed under a wheel.
“Oh gosh,” Oskari gasped. For once, something was happening!
He noticed a hat lying a few yards from the wall of people. An elegant, black gentleman’s hat. He went over and picked it up. He turned it in his hands. There was a dent at the temple, and next to that a stain that left a red smudge on his thumb.
Father would like the hat very much. Or even better, he could sell it at the market and get money for it. It would look well on Oskari, too, though it was a bit big. He traced the edge of the brim with his hand and stroked the hat with his thumb. He was about to place it on his head when a heavy hand fell on his shoulder and took hold of the hat’s brim.
“You scoundrel, where did you get this from?”
Squirm as he might, Oskari couldn’t escape the man’s grip.
“I’ll take this,” the man said. Oskari broke free and ran off as fast as his legs would carry him.
Heikki
When Heikki held the top hat, his fingertips began to tingle, and the feeling spread like wildfire up to his elbows. Heikki wrinkled his brow. For a fleeting moment, he had felt as if he should recognize the little boy from somewhere, but the feeling was gone as soon as it came. Maybe he had run into the kid on the street sometime before.
Heikki had seen the hat fly from the head of the victim and the boy nabbing it from the scene of the accident. It should have been handed over to the police, but Heikki didn’t do that. He walked a block away from where the accident had occurred, carrying the hat carefully. It was dusty, and there was a fresh stain on it – blood, apparently – but that could be cleaned up.
Heikki shook strangely. He had a sudden urge to put the hat on his head, but instead he tucked it under his arm and headed on foot toward the university. His research had reached the point where a breakthrough was near. He had formulated a mathematical equation that proved the existence of alternative realities. His professor had read his draft and smoked several pipes before admitting there might be some validity to Heikki’s calculations. The professor himself was an expert in artificial intelligence and led a research group developing practical applications for devices that could repair themselves. The majority of the people out on the street didn’t understand a lick of their research, but luckily the university had supporters. The government felt the research was important for keeping Finland on the cutting edge of development.
The further Heikki walked, the stranger he felt. Actually, he should have been conveying the bad news to the man’s family. After all, that’s what had happened when the hat had flown from the poor man’s head: someone had lost a loved one. But to whom should he take the news?
Heikki slowed his step and came to a stop in the middle of the street. Ah, yes, Viljakainen’s dress shop, of course. That’s where he had been headed. He took a few unsteady steps in the opposite direction. He made his way past the people thronging the street and was nearly run over by a bicycle.
The two-storey yellow building was already visible in the distance. A hedge of hawthorns grew on either side of the gate. As Heikki whisked into the courtyard, his thoughts were laboured and viscous – he needed to come up with the right thing to say. A dignified message that would hurt as little as possible, if ever it were possible to soften the blow of such news.
The door opened, and at the gate stood a brisk, light-haired woman.
At that moment, Heikki’s mind was wiped of everything. The words came from his mouth as if on a factory conveyor belt.
“This belongs to you,” Heikki said, offering the hat to the woman, who took it in bewilderment.
Siiri
Siiri watched the gentleman leave the yard. It was as if this had happened to her before. The man and the hat. Siiri turned the top hat over in her hand and wondered what to do with the damn thing. It obviously wasn’t hers. On the contrary, it would suit someone like Veerti. Maybe she could give the hat to her brother as a gift. It would look fine on him. Siiri went back inside. Mrs. Viljakainen was still in her dressing robe.
“Who was that?” she asked.
“I don’t know. Some gentleman. He brought this. Does it belong to some outfit?”
Mrs. Viljakainen humphed. “I only make hats for w
omen. That kind of hat would be worn to a very formal party,” she said. “Or some gentleman could wear it at a funeral.”
Someone walked over Siiri’s grave. What was the old woman thinking, talking about funerals on a beautiful morning like this?
“After breakfast you could go to the market for some fresh vegetables,” Mrs. Viljakainen said. “I have guests coming this evening.”
Siiri replied that she would do as her mistress wished. Mrs. Viljakainen hobbled to the breakfast table, and Siiri hurried to pour her coffee. The hat she left on the kitchen table.
Mrs. Viljakainen spread the morning paper in front of her and looked up over the top of her glasses as Siiri poured her coffee. “Beware of the bus,” she said suddenly.
“Why should I beware of the bus?” Siiri asked.
“It will bring misfortune to your family.”
Siiri trembled. Mrs. Viljakainen was very astute and occasionally made predictions for her customers. She had never before said anything to Siiri about her future. Now she spoke clearly about what she foresaw, and afterward turned back to her paper without explaining anything.
Siiri had often wondered what the woman based her predictions on. Did she see future events, or simply guess? Did impressions come to her in dreams, or did she have visions clear as day? Surely there was use for a skill like that, but it must be a burden, too. Siiri wouldn’t have wanted it for herself.
When Siiri went back to the kitchen, the hat had fallen on the floor.
“Aren’t you skittish,” Siiri mumbled to herself as she bent to pick up the hat. It downright clung to her hand. She turned the brim in her fingers. Its edge seemed rather sharp. She straightened out the dent, spit on a scrap of cloth, and rubbed out the stain.
Suddenly she had the urge to try it on.
Siiri adjusted the top hat to fit over her hair and turned to look at her reflection in the mirror. The hat looked stylish, even if it wasn’t designed for a lady. Siiri turned from side to side. If only she were to add a full-length gown, she could go to a dance.
Then it struck.
She saw herself taking the top hat to a hat shop, to a master hatter who had taken a German name. She saw herself walking out of the place. She saw Veerti walking brashly out of the same shop, carrying a heavy bag of money, ogling the women walking in the street, and stepping directly in front of a bus.
Siiri cried out and lifted the hat from her head.
Oh, what a nightmare!
It was impossible! But why had she seen such a terrible sight? What was it Mrs. Viljakainen had said? There are many things in the world that are difficult to understand, but they exist nonetheless, and one must fight against them.
Her heart dropped. Siiri breathed and calmed herself. Her premonition grew into a horrifying certainty. Something bad had happened to Veerti. Mrs. Viljakainen had warned about a bus, too.
Siiri grabbed her coat, picked up the hat, and rushed into the street.
Veerti
Veerti laughed. That hadn’t been difficult, not even close. All he had needed to do was slip into the hatter’s workshop, get the chest of drawers open, and nab the purse stuffed with money. There were coins and bills in there enough that Veerti would live like a gentleman. He would have the money to rent himself and Siiri their own rooms in an apartment in the city. They could go away somewhere and rent a house. Siiri wouldn’t have to coddle the gentry any longer – people would fawn over them, instead.
Passers-by had no idea what Veerti was carrying. He patted his pocket. The purse was pleasantly heavy and felt real when he touched it from time to time. Of course, it was possible that the foolish old man would check his chest and notice the money was gone. But it would take time before suspicion fell on Veerti, if it ever did. He had been careful, no one had seen him, and the cleaner was so earnest that she would hardly be able to connect Veerti to the theft.
Veerti paused in front of a restaurant. He could go put some grub beneath his ribs, and the pints should be filled to overflowing. He would invite his drinking pals. Now it would be Veerti’s turn to buy the rounds.
Suddenly a woman appeared in front of Veerti with something dangling from her hand. Siiri. His sister’s face was frozen in a stern expression. It was the look their mother used to give him when she caught him stealing turnips.
“Well, hello, sister –” Veerti said, but Siiri was upon him in an instant.
“What have you gone and done?” she asked.
“Now, don’t get all worked up,” he said, speculating feverishly as to how Siiri had discovered what he had been up to. Had Iiris gotten in touch with Siiri and spilled the beans?
“We’re giving the money back,” Siiri said determinedly. Somehow, she had found out – damn it!
Siiri’s grip failed. A gust of wind pulled the hat from her hand and it flew far away. Siiri ran after it, but a strong blast of air pushed her back beside Veerti. Siiri’s hand touched his. In the blink of an eye, Veerti saw himself racing after the hat, though he hadn’t gone so far as to attempt it.
At the same moment they heard a bang and a screech, followed by shouts.
“The boy ran out in front of it!” a woman shrieked. “He was after the hat and ran right out in front of it!”
Heikki
Heikki picked the top hat up from the ground and gently shook the dust off it. The hat had a dent and a dark stain, wherever they came from. The hat wasn’t his; it had been carried along by that gust of wind. Heikki glanced around. All about him was commotion, and he finally realised that something had happened. Something significant. He had just been on his way to the university when a noise had roused him from the depths of mathematical contemplation.
“The rascal ran right in front of it,” a woman said.
“No, he was pushed by the woman in the hat.”
“Who pushed him?”
“Or ran into him, rather. That woman with the top hat, she stumbled and bumped into him.”
Strange. Had the top hat fallen from some woman’s head? In any case, people had gathered to stare in horror at the little boy’s fate. A young life had been snuffed out, just like that. The papers had written about and warned of the dangers of new technology – the spread of automobiles and their rapid acceleration had been mentioned in particular. There was no returning to the old days, when a policeman had stood at every intersection, directing traffic.
Heikki could have sworn that the hat ordered him to put it on his head. In any case, he did what the hat wanted.
The world danced topsy-turvy before his eyes, Heikki became dizzy, and his sight grew dim. Then he was present again, in his own body, whole.
“Dad!” Oskari cried out next to him and tugged at his sleeve. “Let’s go see!”
“What?” Heikki asked, shaking his head. It was suddenly hard to say what he had just been doing. And Oskari... the boy was here, when he should have been at home with a fever.
“Some woman ran right in front of a bus.”
“Is that so,” Heikki said, unsure of whether it was Monday or Tuesday. Oskari was already running into the crowd when Heikki snapped out of it and ran after his son. “Stop right there! It might be a horrible sight.”
Oskari stopped in his tracks, disappointed, and grumbled to his father about how boring everything was.
Everyone around them were swarming like bees in a hive or like crows around the carcass of a dead animal.
And then Heikki knew what he had to do.
The hat needed to be returned to the master, its creator.
Master von Hermandorff
“What do you want now?” the master asked the hat. He pressed it to his ear and listened. The clock mechanism ticked away inside. The spring and spring guide, piston, cylinder and piston head. A superheater? How on Earth could there be a superheater inside the hat? And a small steam pistol? How advanced! All of these features would certainly have commercial value, should he choose to make the drawings and take them to the engineers at the factory. His invention co
uld have all sorts of industrial applications!
But he didn’t have the plans necessary for mass production, and he didn’t plan to ever make them. Instead, he worked out what he had already built for the mechanism and where it would all fit, since the false bottom of the hat was extremely shallow. The master took his tweezers and peered under the false bottom. The parts were very small; he would have to get the stronger loupe. He couldn’t let his hand shake at all while using the instruments.
He pressed the hat against his bald head, and his mind was immediately filled with information that he wasn’t fully able to process. This time, the thief hadn’t been run over by a car. Instead, a little boy had ended up losing his life. A boy who sometimes was the son of the university man who would later pick up the hat – and at other times was just a passer-by. Or had the curly-haired woman ended up in front of the bus? The master couldn’t say.
The hat moved from variation to variation, always learning new things. It was like a bloodhound on a scent, traveling at will between time and place, weighing and evaluating.
Now the master knew what he had to do. He needed to tighten up the mechanism, improve the working of the pneumatic cylinder, find the paths between realities. The aether vortexes, of course. When they flowed in opposite directions and rubbed against each other at an angle, the friction they formed created possibilities. From every moment and choice, the aether drew on the potential of what hadn’t happened. The mechanism ticking inside the hat took reign of that potential for its own use.
But what would the master do with all that? There were seven hats, and this latest was the most developed of the lot. The hat didn’t yet know enough about people and their choices. It was striving with all its might to get back into the field, to learn and to grow. It wasn’t ready yet, not perfect as it wished to be. There was still a ways to go before it could affect the fate of nations, war and peace, the rise and fall of governments.
There would need to be many more choices and corrections and new choices made before the mechanism would develop sufficiently. But, in the meantime, the master could make a few more hats, experiment, and tinker.